i am sick.
i don’t say that to get pity.
i say that because it is a fact.
my illness doesn’t allow me to sleep.
or eat.
or love.
my illness controls me.
i spend my days practicing a smile
at night, i fall apart.
i slice my skin and wish for death.
if i were to die, i wouldn’t be happy,
i just wouldn’t exist anymore.
my anger and sadness and hopelessness
would all cease to exist,
and i would finally be at peace.
suicide may be considered a sin,
but i am pagan.
my gods would accept my surrender.
but my mother would not.
nor would the rest of my loved ones.
but i am not them,
and i just want to die.
my illness is what causes this.
my illness is what keeps me sick.
and i am so sick.
i am just so sick.