The only thing I’ll regret when I ultimately take my own life is that I’ll never know the reactions of those who knew me. I’ll never know who will break down. I’ll never know who will go numb. I’ll never know who will feel indifferent. I’ll never know who will sit at my grave. I’ll never know who will never know. I can only sit and speculate who cares the most and who doesn’t care at all during the hour of my death.

And I began to wonder if I would ever get better. But then it hit me. That I would never get better. Because the moment I start to get better, the moment I start to think that maybe life wouldn’t keep breaking me. That’s the same moment when things start going downhill way too fast. That is the same moment that I lose control of the downward spiral I constantly find myself in. Weeks of constantly tugging my sleeve down. Hiding myself in too big clothing to hide away my darkest secrets. The countless nights of locking myself away while I tug my sleeve up and carve away at myself like I was a piece of marble. Only what I was doing wasn’t artistic. It wasn’t beautiful or worthy of viewers enjoyment. It was countless nights of trying to cut out the things I hated most about myself. As if etching crimson lines into my pale skin was capable of gutting out the very things that made me sick. And then I began to wonder if I would ever get the courage to do it. To leave behind this earth in search of somewhere I belonged. But I won’t ever find it. I don’t belong anywhere. I don’t belong anywhere but somewhere forgotten. Someplace where everyone who thought they knew me doesn’t remember that I ever existed. I belong as a whisper. The same kind of whisper where people can’t recall if I ever actually existed. Like a ghost haunting their peripherals.