you asked me to think about why i tried to **** myself. you told me to write a journal entry and paste my feelings onto paper and make me try to pretend that it would be okay. that putting everything i tried to destroy with a bottle of pills would help heal me. am i supposed to be your new entertainment, your new muse. to try and have me romanticize my everyday thoughts that torment me and create a daily aesthetic for you? explain how i felt trying to destroy myself, and capture what destroyed me into a journal entry. is that what you call art now. ive never picked up a cigarette before and now i cant go an hour free of anxiety without having my lung chew up one. is that romantic enough for you. im not sitting here saying i dont enjoy life, because i do. if you wanted me to write you a poem you could have just asked because youll find more beauty hidden underneath stanzas than my hollow bones. and im pretty sure im sane, even though i have to take a pill to get through some days when i get sad. but you see, you asked me to write about why i wanted to commit suicide. not as to why i did not succeed. and to be honest i dont know why i survived that wave of toxins. maybe it was my fingers that managed to grasp the back of my throat or maybe it was how i already knew the comfort of hanging over that pitiful toilet seat. maybe it was my parents who rushed me through hospital doors at 2:00 am. or maybe it was the nurse who could not believe i would try and destroy a work of art. but i found life while i was dying and i ******* survived that night for some ******* reason. and this is my journal entry for you. not as to why i wanted to die, but as to how i survived. but if you wanted a poem, all you had to do was ask.