A/N: Suicide.
This is one of my last entries. I don't need this anymore. I stole the vodka from my mothers room. I see the medication with my name on it. The stronger dose I'm guessing. I take that as well. I shovel a handful of these pills and take them down with the alcohol. I didn't want to go. But the more I flick back the more pain you give me. I relapsed on my first day when I said I wouldn't let it happen but you still did it. You made me feel disgusting like someone else made me feel. I didn't want your hands under my shirt or on my thighs. But you still did it. Another person had taken advantage of me. I search my pocket trousers and I found the sharpener. I get one of my step fathers tool box and get out a screwdriver and unscrew the screws that held the blade to the plastic.
I ran the blade over my burning skin, not cutting it but the feeling brought tears to my eyes. The coolness of the blade brought a slight comfort to me. I sat there crying thinking whether I should do this.
Was I really going to do this? I remember whispering 'Fuck it.' As I went over my scars. Redrawing them but adding colour this time. The blade brought a crimson liquid up to the surface of my right arm as I cut the left. It didn't hurt straight away. It was a release.
I'm trying not to get blood on the pages as I write this, draining the vodka. I'm laid in bed I'm just waiting for my mind to slip into darkness. My pure white sheets were now covered with sin. With blood I spilt.
To everyone I love: I'm so fucking sorry.
