I don't know how to tell her.
How are you expected to tell anyone?

"This isn't doing it anymore;
your affections aren't suitable for me.
I would rather have *** with
other people than you."

There's nothing wrong with her.
She treats me well,
and I spend more time with her than most.
But she isn't her. You know? Her.

"It's not that I don't like you.
It's just that most people
make me incredibly lonely.
And you're simply one of them.
No hard feelings, right?"

There's just no pretty way to say it.

when i cry at night just remember it's not because i want to die anymore

He is scared of everything.
He is abused at home.
He is afraid to cry, afraid to ask for any sort of help.
He is prideful
Some say it is his downfall.
He is afraid of his father.
His expectations cut at him like razors,
He was always bleeding somewhere.
He couldn't sleep at night.
The thoughts of his father's hate kept him up, sleepless nights and dozens of lost fights.
His bones ached from "punishments"
He wants to **** himself.
Pills wouldn't be enough
Cutting wouldn't be enough
Suicide itself wouldn't be enough.
He believed in God his whole life.
Until he decided to ask god to bring him to safety
And nothing happened
His loss in Christianity was like being shot,
just another wound
He was always alone.
At school, his silence echoed through the halls.
He often pondered what life would be like without him.
But then believed those thoughts were too common.
He believed he was nothing.
He believed he had truly been summoned to hell, but been aloud to live.
No one loves a loner
He told himself.
After all,
He'd seen the proof.
He counted the bruises that trailed his arms,
wishing he was aloud to feel something
but his emotions were as numb as the man inflicting the pain.
He was done.
He was sick.
But sometimes the sick don't get better
Happy endings are fairy-tales.
No mother could dare save him from himself...
Or his father.
He WAS SO ANGRY
THE HELL WOULDNT JUST go AWAY
HE CANT TAKE IT
SO THAT DAY
He took a gun
HELD IT SO CLOSE TO HIS FACE,
THE GUN FELT THE SWEAT.
THE GUN COULD SMELL HIS BREATH AS HE COULD SMELL THE GUNPOWDER.
Before long, he would be free
his soul
FLYING AWAY
becoming more than abuse.
He
had no real chance to live.
All these thoughts
come together like a sick narrative.
"Get over it"
"******* queer"
"Trash...he's ******* trash"
"*******, that kid"
PAIN
None of it matters though
because the gun already spoke
at the sound of a 5-block radius.
It spoke so loudly
one word
Bang
and the body released a river of crimson relief.
To flow
on
*to heaven.

My stomach is full of sorrow

but my heart is void of warmth

A selfish coward who yearns,

for the ending of existence.

Candlelight flickers in the eyes,

but the spark is unseen.

Do I lack ambition?
A thread of red
Severed by one rusted knife
Do I reserve the right to hold my head up high?
A stubborn pride that festers like mold
But clutching a grip that refutes self acceptance
I force myself into an envelope
Sealed from all the ill intent of many
Am I just meant to play the part-
of the feeble victim?