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,
Why would you choose to stop now?
My only regret, my dear,
Why would you love dying more than you love me?