Dear 2020,

    I don’t really know why I’m writing to you today. Technically, I could talk to many different people. There’s Mom, Bonnie, and the internet suicide chats. Honestly, I don’t think any of them would understand what I would say, though. Mom is best at hugs, Bonnie likes to tell me to read papers, and I don’t think the internet suicide chat is right for me, because they wouldn’t be able to fix me. So I thought, if its okay, then I would talk to you again.
    If you listen to the song on Youtube called Her Last Words, then you might notice how similar that song is to these letters. That's because I like thinking that when I die- No. I just thought, The people who love me will find and read these, but that's a lie, isn’t it? Because if I really thought people loved me, I wouldn’t be here writing to you about my own suicide. So no. If I **** myself, I will probably just upload all of these letters onto Hello Poetry.
    I’m just feeling really down. Nothing is working out for me, as usual. I don't hate anything anymore. I’m just really, really tired. And I don’t want to be here anymore. But unlike school, and people, and nature, I can’t escape my mind and this world. No matter how much I want to. I’m trapped here. I can never escape unless I die. And as much as I want to, I can’t.
    I never want to leave my room. I don’t care if I starve here, I have water and would finally be skinny, right? I never want to leave my room. I never want to go to the doctor, take my medicine, see anyone in person. Because I’m actually sick of people, as much as they scare me. I can just text them, or whatever. People always like me better over text anyways. And I’m so sick of these doctors and grownups trying to fix me. Have you ever thought that maybe I’d rather just die myself, then live on as some drugged-happy maniac, some distorted version of me?
    But, I mean, who the **** am I anyway? I’m not even dead yet and everyone has already forgotten me. Even myself. And I’m falling apart piece by piece. I feel like at any second, I could simply fall apart at the seams and tumble onto the ground.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.
    I wish I would die.


I realized I’m not even writing to the receiver of this letter. I’m not really writing to myself in 2020, am I? No, I’m writing to absolutely no one, and hoping that someone will read this because I am dead.
    And this weekend, I’m not going to be able to be who Machaela wants me to be, am I? I’m just going to a pre-skeleton, sitting there quietly, thinking of all the wrong things, saying too little, and feeling too much. I’m sorry, I don’t really know why I started writing this letter to you. It’s been completely pointless, and I don’t really have anything to say. I’ve had to talk to so many people, saying the same things so often that I have completely run out of anything new or interesting or surprising. I don’t want to be with others, I want someone. But I Don’t want to be alone, I want to be by myself. I want a hug, but I want a specifically perfect best-friend, one who’s always there for me and would have no idea what to do if I was gone, to be the one to hug me.








I really wish I could die.








I really
Really
Really
Really
Really
Really
Really




Wish I could die.

Sincerely,
H. R. S.