The main reason I haven't killed myself yet is that if I do,
no one will know all the thoughts and ideas and dreams I've had.
No one will know exactly how my mind works.
No one will know that I think my ceiling fan looks kind of like the moon
or that I use ink across my wrist instead of a blade
or that I am utterly puzzled by the universe and its secrets
or all of the questions that plague my mind when sleep deprivation has stolen my inhibitions.
My mind and all its complex mysteries would completely vanish from the world the second I
swallowed one too many pills
or made the last slash in my skin
or let gravity take me
or finally pulled the trigger.
That is the only reason I have held on so long.
It's almost as if I can pretend I matter in this world.
Almost.