I want to commit suicide. I want to kill myself. I want to end my life because maybe then I won’t feel like I am never enough. Maybe then I will feel free of expectations from myself and others. Maybe then I will feel better. Maybe then I will feel happy. Maybe then I will stop thinking. Maybe then I will stop blowing up. Like a balloon. Like a crazy person. Like a melted snowflake watching the snow fall from the slush it ended up in. Maybe I won’t want to commit suicide anymore. Maybe I’ll be special.