What A Way To Go 🖤🕊️
You imagined yourself sitting on the bathroom floor with the glass in your hand. You wanted more than anything to plunge it into your thigh. Maybe you could pull out some tendons and snap them like string. Fall apart until you’re a sad excuse of a corpse sitting on that dirty bathroom floor in a pool of your own blood. How sweet it would be for your roommate to come home and see you like that. What would he think? Would he kill himself too like he always said he would? Would some of your other friends wonder what they could’ve done differently? Maybe if they had just checked in on you more? Maybe if they had remembered to ask if you had taken your meds that day? But at the end of the day it never was their responsibility… and not even you knew why you didn’t take your meds those days. The mix of alcohol and the absence of meds that caused your happiness levels to decrease as you inched ever so closer to the next period you were never supposed to have. You had changed your dose recently. You always wondered if you would benefit from more Prozac, but you were already taking the legal amount. The window was open an inch as, in reality, you laid, curled up on your bed. The sharp cold of 31 degree Fahrenheit weather and the bitter cold end of February brushed on your skin and you wondered why you hadn’t grabbed a hoodie before going to bed. Too lazy to get it now, you took the cold. You played your favorite sad songs, mostly consisting of Wilbur Soot. An asshole of a Minecraft streamer that reminded you of the worst times of your life. Once you were old enough to register your suicidal thoughts and the beginnings of cutting your thighs up beyond recognition you had reached high school. The age where things had to be better than middle school, didn’t they? But no, things only got worse as time went on and you only grew more distant from those around you. You wanted to reach out, but if you did would they send you to a hospital? It wasn’t that serious, it’s best not to worry them with your problems. You’ll get over it, you always do. You’re a big girl you told yourself, once again imagining that glass against your skin. With one swift movement you could feel the hurt, see the beautiful scars you loved to see for a week or so until they went away and you tell yourself you’re fine. What were you even so sad about? You have nothing to be sad about. Here you are in a first world country, food and water at your disposal, clean clothes and technology, even a cat that seems to be annoyed by your existence. What did you have to be sad about? Nothing. You’re pathetic. You should just take your meds, get back in line. Everything’s fine. You’re overreacting. You’ve already wasted all day away in bed, can’t you do something right for once? Homework is piling up, even your aunt doesn’t have faith that you’ll be able to do it all on time. What if you do fail? What if you killed yourself right now? You’re brought back to the bathroom. It was always your favorite place to cut yourself. You liked to look in the mirror and watch the blood cling to your skin as it dripped down your legs and into every crevice. What if one day your friends and family woke up to see you weren’t there anymore? The world would be such a better place. You wished more than anything that you could reach out. But how were you supposed to? You practically tried to suffocate yourself in front of your friends and they did nothing to stop you. Even a simple “yeah I noticed that” when you had mentioned it the day after. Why didn’t they stop you? Did they want you to kill yourself? You were such a burden to them that they wanted to watch you kill yourself. Kill yourself with your favorite squishmallow in your favorite place in your favorite clothes with your favorite people. What a way to go.