I am not strong. I have scars on my wrists to prove it. All the scars I’ve left represent my weakness and every drop of blood I’ve shed represents my loss of strength. And if you listen closely, you can hear my heart sing you a song about it.
I can no longer go on. I’m always in pain like there’s a hole in my heart and it’s bleeding badly. There practically is a hole in my heart. My whole life seems like someone took a razor-sharp knife and violently plunged it through my heart and just left me, bleeding out and alone. How I’ve managed to make it this far in such misery is a mystery to me. I’m waiting for the day I go too far with my cutting and I die because this pain is too much for me to live with.
My irrelevancy to everyone has turned me to dust. I no longer exist in their world; just something they brush away. My smile is no longer bright or real. My heart can no longer feel happiness. I want to be alive no longer. I feel death following me, or I’m following it. If I am, I’ll keep chasing it until it kills me. That’s all I want; death. That shouldn’t be too much to ask for.
