Book of Suicide
i don't quite know what to write today, but i feel like
writing. my head hurts and my eyes feel blurry. i feel
like i'm just going to start crying. i don't know why i'm
sad, but i am. i guess it's because i know that no one
wants me ... though i have loved and devoted myself to
others. i can't breathe as easily. it feels like i have
to work twice as hard to do simple things. i'm tired of
being alone. i'm tired of being abandoned. i'm tired of
life. all i could think about yesterday was cutting.
that's all i wanted to do, is cut. cut and cry. i don't
think i'm going to make it through the day as well as i'd
like to. it's weird, everytime i'm cutting, crying, or
just feeling sad, i'm always listening to music. it feels
good. i feel like i'm a part of the music. that the tears
are wailing violins and the blood is a mournful piano.
reverberating within me and solemnly echoing around me.
the sickenly sweet song, stained red with blood, and washed
clear with tears.