a/n: I'm suffocating, tell me what the fuck is wrong, with me?
(Linkin Park.)

So I guess I'll just continue
biting my lips
and grinding my teeth
pretending I can breathe,
my hands aren't shaking and I'm
not perspiring madly.

What does it matter anyway?
I'm curious -
is death by asphyxiation painful?

a/n: I put the note in his locker under honest but I do(n't) think he understands.
At all.
Because
even though he doesn't approve,
those (burns) are pretty badass.

((Helpful, right?))

a/n: I've gotten some mixed views on the formatting of this poem.
I meant it to be emotional and perhaps a little radical.
The origional, unformatted version is included,
so please read if you're interested.