Whenever I think about suicide, there’s always this part of me that imagines someone rushing in at the last minute, someone finding me there before I slip away. Crying over me. Trying to save me. Which is why I don’t tell them about it now. People feel this need to try and fix me, like I’m something that can just be patched up and set straight. When really I’m unfix-able. I just don’t want them to know about me until its to late. I don’t want their pity. I just want to know I’m loved.

It's weird, because I really don’t want to be saved. It’s just that before I die I would like to know that there was someone who cared enough to at least try to save me, even if there was nothing they could do. I just want to die happy, which really isn’t possible with suicide. But I don’t see my death really happening any other way. Just a matter of when I finally lose a hold of that last strand of hope. The fact that I’m going to die alone, miserable, in pain, it sucks. I wish suicide was as glamorous as they make it seem in the movies. The undeclared love swooping in at the last minute, holding you in his arms as the doctors rush in to try to stop the bleeding.

Which is never going to happen. I’m not loveable, hell I’m not even noticeable. I’m just the sad, quiet, miserable thing that sits quietly fading into the woodwork. I’m going to die alone in some seedy motel, miles away from family and friends, laying on the floor bleeding out as that black monster laughs at me and continues to whisper the lies he tells so well. I’ll be in pain up until the moment I stop breathing…

22-25, F
Dec 16, 2012