Walking heartache
Daily headache
You’ll be the end of me.

You’re a stone cold brute
I want a shot, but don’t know how to shoot.
Everything seems impossible with you.

So, why do I care? Why do I stay?
Maybe I’ll figure myself out some day.

An empty shell,
Whose life is hell.
A hollow soul;
A shallow well.

A sorrowful spirit engrossed with woes,
Bits and pieces of me no one knows.

Superficially, I reveal myself
Neglecting to reflect my mental health.
Scared for myself and seeking help,
But it all fails
and goes to Hell.

I just found what were supposed to be my last words
Left behind when I attempted to take my life
On a lonely, heartbroken, crucial night.
Notes to three people
Who loved me and tried to protect me
But who could not protect me on Christmas Eve.

I still wonder why I didn’t die that night
And maybe that’s why I hold on to the hastily written notes;
For the reminder that it’s not my choice, when I should go.