I write this with little force,

Autocorrect guiding my words;

Inhalers keeping this curse at bay,

Blades making blood flow.

I think of now with little hope,

Without a saving grace;

I think of now, a pitch-black room

With no one there but my demons.

Flurry of words seem to gush out of me,

As I hyperventilate;

Grief grows larger as they don't notice,

As these fingers grow numb.

I don't know how much I'll last,

Might as well collapse,

No matter how much I say I'll die,

I'll just live some time again.

But now it's worse.