It's simple.
People ask me why I want to die.
I say "It's more of a question of why not."
Sometimes it's easier to name more of the why nots. My mother is a why not, my best friends are why nots and my brothers, family, they are all why nots.
Other times its easier to name the whys. I hate myself is a why, I'm exhausted is a why, I am vulnerable is a why. Yet all these revolve around me to the point where I'm surprised no one has called me "selfish."
I'm not deserving. I don't even deserve the question "Why do you want to die?" From a stranger or a friend. Because by now, I should've done something about it. However, I still want to feel the bliss of endless slumber. I long for it. It's the only type of sleep that appeals to me, as I don't want to wake up.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for the ones who can't love themselves
PoetrySmall poems for the ones who have no idea how to love themselves or save themselves. I promise you're not alone. Even though everynight may seem that way when you're tranced into your set numbness. Enjoy.
