After 11 failed suicide attempts,

I began to question why you were still alive at all.

If all you've wanted for the past three years is to be a bloody corpse,

Lost in the memories of people you swear hate you- but in reality

Do only the opposite-

Why do you still aimlessly drag yourself through the dysphoric sea of the living?

You've got nothing to live for, my love.

And, sure, you've got me.

But what am I worth when on the other side

You've got roses and peace and Bach playing in the background-

Or whatever the hell else you claim to give you a clear state of mind.

A Nirvana, perhaps, made all for yourself.

Instead of the torment you drag yourself through with split fingernails and dirty, torn skin,

The inkblot bruises and chipped teeth,

That you save in a tiny red box

Sealed with a pretty white ribbon and a bloody kiss,

Sheltered away under your mattress,

to hide away from this melting dystopia you call Earth.

Dying is something you've been doing on a daily basis,

My darling.

Why would you choose to stop now?

My only regret, my dear,


Why would you love dying more than you love me?