The risk of failing to **** myself
Keeps me from attempting at all.

I mean, I have before.
I have fully committed with
Paragraphed and signed goodbyes
And tears that flowed seemingly flowed up,
up
up      
towards the ceiling instead of down my flushed cheeks
So weightless
almost

free.

But, alas,
I didn't die.
No one found out.
So it practically never happened.
Who knows, maybe it was just a figment of my
****** up
imagination.

After attempting so many times I learned that I wouldn't be able to go in a drug-induced, quiet, peaceful sleep.
I would have to do something more drastic.
Something that would draw attention.
Something that they would find out.

And, if I fail, as I had all those times before,
then I don't think I'll be able to live through seeing their
faces painted with disappointment
and pity;
hear their cries,
their lectures,
their self-help talk,
their meaningless affirmations,
the beep-beep-beep-beep
of the hospital
as I lie limp
and useless
and empty
and alive,
and dead.

It would drive me absolutely insane.
But then again,
I suppose I already am.