I remember how I would pray every night to a god i didn’t believe in, asking to let me die.
Because the pain of the memories kept cutting deeper and deeper and when I thought the wounds were healed I would look down to see more blood than skin.
I remember the redness in the eyes of a mother who thought she failed me.
I gave up on trying to be happy because with every wound they said would make me stronger but my strength was measured by how deep I could get the blade.
So no mom… I failed myself.
I remember how my dad called me saying how concerned he was… then when the call ended messaged my mom about me wanting attention.
Attention so she could forget how I “lied” so I wouldn’t get yelled at when I got home from the investigation room.
People say death by your own hand is a sin.. but there is no mention of the punishment for those who lead you to the top of a 30 floored sky scrapper.
They say that we are broken and so fucked we will always be this way… sadly, I believed them.
That every cut I make, pill I take, note I write, bottle I sight will make me broken beyond repair…
That I could never be saved