I'm angry and agitated and pent-up.
ignored and perhaps forgotten—or thought of as if to regret ending something perfectly fine.
people are talking downstairs, saying nothing.
I don't want to live.
I want to die, and die well to make sure I'm dead.
I want to die and not haunt anyone or be a dust-collecting memory in a display case of what once meant something.
I want to die. So. Hard. I'm angry that I took 16 breaths just now.
I want to die and not have a funeral because I don't want people to be in that awkward position.
I want to die and not disappear off the grid but actually lay ca-put in a grave; my soul rejoices or cries; i don't know.
Throwing tantrums because life’s curtain has been reluctant to close is looked down upon in society—apparently.
I'm tired of 'white' 'black' 'hot' ‘unattractive’ 'poor' 'rich'.
I hope everyone has a ****** day tomorrow.
I type this on an imagined-into-existence phone—that has no service—by a guy whose name also means 'occupations'.
I type it on a phone because an ******* is hogging the outdated pc with a new battery pack because that same ******* wore the chord out.
it's not that I don't know what to do with my life; I just want to die.
that's what I want to do.
die.
that's all.
But perhaps be in a focused band that plays pretty good music, first.