i can’t write anymore. I don’t even have it in me to write poetry. I’m inches from another relapse and the only thing stopping me was the poems. I’ve got no more inspiration. I’m so low I can’t even express it. I want to go back. To cutting. To drugs. To cigarettes. To not giving a fuck about anything. Because this forcing myself to care about life is draining me. Maybe another attempt will set me straight. Maybe if I can just solidify my depression, I’ll never have to be happy again. I’m sure I’ve got more than enough razors and pills. Maybe I’ll drop a toaster in the bathtub. That’s one I’ve yet to try. I’m so sick of life. Honestly if I got hit by a truck tomorrow I don’t care. Im afraid to feel happy, and when Im happy I get sad soon after. yet I’m miserable feeling miserable. I give up. I’m finished. My 11:11 wish tonight: the same as it always is. Death.
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