My body is too weak to get out of bed but I'm forced to participate in the making of me feel like shit. I'm slowly drifting away into the cold inviting arms of a man I so long awaited.... Death. Is suicide my answer. Would I be missed? No.. Am I needed? Possibly.. But is I who cooks & cleans for my sick father who cannot walk. It is I who watches after my nephew when my brother works. I stopped my dad from killing himself & made him promise he wouldn't do such a thing but I ended up doing such a thing & ended up failing & here I am. I've been in 4 hospitals for suicide watch & 2 in take care homes. Pen & paper might help me but I try a new thing a razor & skin for so long I hated the idea of cutting but her I am doing it myself. Blood falls onto this paper & I spread it this story is a part of me now. I weep as I write this because I thought writing would be comfortable but it Genuinely hurts. I cry because I realize how fucking fucked up my mind is. Twisted & spiteful are the words I come up with when I think of my mental state.
