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Feb 9
I've written 4 suicide letters, each one better than the last. I'd thought I'd mastered the art of saying goodbye through a piece of page. Nothing can compare to the last one I wrote, so poetic; I knew I couldn't use my previous ones cause if I did no one would see there was at least something that came out of my depression. In and out of psychologists rooms - I swear this is exhausting, but ma wants me to get better. I laugh at her cause better is only like my father's presence; it ain't there. Suicide letter number 4 had me believing for sure I wouldn't make it out alive, there was just something about the way I had stalked all those words in the dictionary, I put some light in there hoping I'd see the same light when I'd finally come to rest. But I couldn't, if I could I would; overdosing, drowning, popping a vein, all that and I couldn't do it. There's something in the way nurses look at me that make me despise hospitals, I hate the sympathy on their faces and mostly I hate them for having that motherly affection. Ain't nothing worse than doctors telling you to rest when the only rest you need would've been death. You see what I feel is a type of tired that sleep can't fix, or maybe sleep 6ft under would fix it, I don't know honestly.
Mihle Mdashe
Written by
Mihle Mdashe  17/F/Cape Town, Western Cape
(17/F/Cape Town, Western Cape)   
172
 
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