Happening

Six

Dear diary,

Last night I wrote a suicide letter. I mean, writing looks like a very tedious job to do when you want to slit your wrist into two halves and stab a kitchen knife in your throat. A neat little letter with significance to all people who are to close to me and a proper goodbye to all enemies and friends. Scribbles of blue on a white paper with black stripes . Very neat.

It's not that I'm going to kill myself anytime soon but the thought has been brimming in my mind since three years , but I'm still alive. Don't worry. I might kill myself today or years later or never. It's all about if I can find myself be helpful to anyone in anyway. Children are replaceable, I've seen that . Friends aren't constant , I've seen that. And Love matters but then it stops to matter . Love is everything, to be honest . Just try to imagine that i can be honest for a minute . I must love dying so bad that I self harm every day. Relishing the taste of pain and breathlessness and the weakness that flushes over me after the deed of harm.

"I hope you will never be the reason why someone who loves to sing stops singing at all ; i hope that because of you no one loses a part of themselves because you were unsupportive or downright ignorant of what they loved in themselves "

I just wish someone had told me this earlier. I would have shut my mouth up , never opened it to speak cheap and idiotic useless things from my stupid little brain. I wish that tonight I have enough courage to kill myself so that the next chapter will never be written.

Yours longingly, abusively, hurtfully.
One little author.
Sweet dreams.