If only death could come so easy, so softly and silently. I don’t think pills work, they take too long, and are effective in 22% of cases. The ratio sux if you want to die and not see all the faces of people who think they care standing by your bed with sad aghast faces, snivelling of why you would do that. Yes, you are there then, where are you now. I know where you are now, thinking I am fine, having a bed day, I will get over it. I don’t need you when I’m in the hospital bed, maybe I don’t need you at all, all you make me do is live this cycle over and over again. Save me, pander me, pat me, hope you’ve fixed me. Then get mad at me, when low and behold, I’m still that sick twisted person inside with the pain and the hurt and the rage that threatens to swallow me, everyday, or have you forgotten, I am still that mess you want to forget exists.
I read many sites today, the quickest, easiest and least messy way to die is with carbon monoxide, except you need an old car, all the new cars with emission parameters take much longer, and my hybrid for sure would take forever, in which case I could read a book and then slumber into oblivion.
Next, slit your wrists, get into a nice hot bath and let life flow out of you blissfully. As long as someone finds you relatively quick you wont be a smelly rotten corpse. It could be art, you could do your hair and make up first and wear a pretty white flowing dress. Just can’t cry or you’d ruin the canvas with mascara smudges and puffy eyes.
Hanging is so ugly but kids do it all the time so how hard could it be?
I’d like to run my road off the cliff, I drive by enough, but I have the fear of not dying being a paraplegic and having more pity eyes on me. Of course, now you’d have no choice but to acknowledge that I am never getting well. You’d have to pander to me, soft pedal, spoon feed but maybe the harsh words would stop and guilt would be reversed, instead of my feeling guilty for being inferior you can feel guilty that I am now in all ways, inferior.
Death, I hear you, your puppeteer and I have some unfinished business this weekend. We’re playing with pain. Running through the fields of loathing. Revelling in being alone and twisted and anguished with no one no one no one to make us feel bad, for being bad, for acting bad, for wanting death.