I used to cut my wrists because I hoped the answers would spill out with my blood.
Ironically, I wasn’t really trying to **** myself, I just really wanted to find a reason as to why I should live.
I used to cut my wrists because the blood seemed to wash away all the pain from yesterday, and prepare me for the next.
Ironically, while I was killing myself slowly, the deeper I cut, the more I began to realize how much I needed to breathe.
I used to practice tying nooses because I was trying to figure out what I was doing wrong and why it never seemed to get the job done.
Ironically, I didn’t want to **** myself because I had nothing, I was trying to **** myself because I felt there was more opportunities in the afterlife.
I used to be a very sad and confused child who seemed to almost chase death.
Ironically, on my slightly suicidal adventures, I felt very alive and every racing beat of my heart made me remember that I am no different from any other human.
I used to chase a bottle of pills with ***** because I thought it would be a good tonic.
Ironically, when I’d lie on the bathroom floor with tears rolling down my cheeks, throwing up blood and food, I’d laugh because it showed how mortal I was.
I used to play games with death and laugh when I beat him.
Ironically, as much as I did want to die, I wanted to be alive more--feel alive. Feel like a ******* human being and know that I’m just as vulnerable to death as everyone else.
I used to cut my wrists because I hoped the answers would spill out with my blood, but I learned that*  **the answers won’t ever be found there, no matter how deep and hard you look.