When is it ever going to stop?
The images of my body hanging in my room or my wrists cut and blood all over the floor or the glass shards from the window I broke. I want it to stop. I want to stop and I don’t want it to stop.
I want the end the thing that I started. I want to get over this life. I don’t want to exist. I have no purpose and I’m selfish. I don’t care who feels bad. I know they’ll get over it. I don’t want to be born again in a world full of hatred and horror. I don’t want to be depressed. I don’t want to cry everyday.
I don’t want to read books and stay in their world forever because you see for me they are not just stories, they are real. Every book I read, the characters are me. I am her. I am the protagonist. And I always die at the end of it.
And that’s when I want to die too. I want to be brave and selfless and I want to live as she would. I don’t have any other goals or aims or any attachments.
I hope my husband understands.
1 comment
I can relate to the books – for me they are also more than just stories, they are, as you said, real. I hope ending our existence will end the pain too.