It's one year to the day I cut my hair.

I was growing it out for months, but it was this last Thanksgiving I made my decision. I would kill myself, and there would be no doubt. The day before my last day I decided to cut it, because then I didn't think I'd see the end of the week. There wasn't any point, I had reasoned, we're born and we die. Like all animals, we only stay on this planet to multiply and grow. Then it's over. There isn't much point to those years inbetween, so I decided not to waste time.

If only I'd taken one more pill, tried a little harder…

I did try, by the way. I started off the morning by feigning ill so everyone would leave me home alone. I said my good byes and found my father's gun. I'd been telling myself for weeks how easy it was. It felt so much heavier in my hand as I lifted it up. To my surprise, there were no bullets in it. This disappointing news did not deter me. I went to laundry room with a glass from the kitchen and filled it with bleach. The smell of it was foul, and like years before when I'd mixed together some foul concoction, I could not raise it to my lips. Setting it down in the sink I grabbed a knife and went up to my room. I took several, eight in fact, expired sleeping pills, and while waiting for them to kick in I brought the knife down on my wrist. I'd learned only yesterday the proper way to cut, but I still did wrong. Instead of nicking that sweet blue vein I cut a long inch and half next to it. To my dismay I was rapidly losing consciousness but not blood. I thought to call 9-1-1 but what would I tell my parents if they pumped my stomach? My wrist was ripped skin and barely even dripping blood. I scratched at it idly and lay back in bed quickly falling deeply asleep.

If only I'd taken one more, or maybe two of those pills, I wouldn't have woken later that night disoriented and disappointment. It was easy enough to tell my parents my dog had scratched my wrist, believable too.

It's been one year to the day that I cut my hair. One year of life more than I'd planned on. Here comes Thanksgiving again, that special time of year when we glutton ourselves and talk about the beauty of it all. But what have I done in this one year to make me change my mind?

I've started college. Tonight, I'm trying to finish a paper that I'll probably fail because I procrastinated to much. I've become popular online, but all my real friends have left me. I still have a scar and the tattered strands of hair that have grown back.

Do I try again this year? Or do I just keep praying for the world to end? Some part of me still wants to watch the world burn.

This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful no one ever asked me why I cut my hair, or where I really got that scar, because I don't think I can give them a real answer.

Not without a bitter smile.

We'll all die one day, thankfully.