Untitled

I’m lonely. I’m lonely.

I’m lonely.

I’m lonely. I’m lonely.

I’m lonely.

I’m lonely. I’m lonely.

I’m lonely.

I’m lonely. I’m lonely.

I’m lonely.

whenever i imagine myself dying now, i don’t cry anymore. i still wonder what people would do, my family, my friends, my boyfriend. but i don’t cry anymore. i don’t feel guilt trying to stop me.

the only thing i feel is relief, the knowledge that if i died, i’d finally rest. it’s scary. it’s fucked up, how much i’ve daydreamed about it, enough to become numb to it, to start liking it. i’m scared of myself.

but if i end up killing myself, i don’t want people to remember me. i want to go knowing i’m hurting as few people as i possibly can.