“It could always be worse” they say.
But in reality it couldn’t be much worse, because I am dying.
I am being swallowed by my thoughts, the cuts a mere symbol to the shooting pain in my heart.
1 pill, 2 pill, 3 pill, 4 pill, but I stay awake.
I overdose not to kill myself, but to feel something besides pure anxiety and depression.
1 cut, 2 cut, 3 cut, 4 cut there is no amount of blood that will ever be enough.
One day I will be put out of my misery, away from this hell.Â That day willÂ be eventful,Â because also on that dayÂ I will be buried.