I think I want to kill myself.

Or I’d rather disappear.

It calls to me like a siren song, the sweet words of death and its cold embrace. This yearning I feel that rumbles and prowls in the cage of my ribs follow the rhythm of the rising sun and the falling moon.

Yet its sound is barely a thump, the weight of its voice barely audible in the cavern of my body.

But its burden is heavy, and it seemingly pulls down the sharp bones into my stomach.

This feeling drowns me in its hold, sinking me down into the waters filled with sorrow and biting crocodiles.

In the murky water you can see a treasure chest. A treasure chest that brings me nothing but pain and paranoia. Yet I can't help but polish its metal and kiss its lock for good luck.

There's no riches in this chest, no gold, no valuable manuscripts or anything special for that matter.

No, what’s inside is a cookie tin.

A tin filled with unsent letters and ugly tears. This is where I keep all my ugly and misshapen things, my most shameful secret. It’s been hidden away for so long that it dances to its own screeching music. The beat of its melody resembles the drumming of my heart.

I’ve birthed it out of my own lips and hands, I’m covered in its blood and shedding its tears.

‘It’ I say, for it barely deserves a title of affection, and it would be an insult to all things living and breathing to refer to it as human. It is a beast of my own creation.

‘It’ is me.

Which makes me question whether I even deserve to feel the warmth of the human title that is my name.

I don’t even qualify for its call. The sins in me are etched so deep into me, it shows itself as the scars on my body. My status casts me lower than the water fleas.

And once again I drown in the river, where maybe I can deserve peace if I suffer more. Maybe, I can calmly rest my bones onto the mossy rocks, maybe I can finally feel at home.

But it won’t ever be enough will it? A being like me deserves less than what I have.

How will I atone for my sins?

I wonder how I’ll do it?

Do I take the knife, and slowly drink the blood from my veins?

Do I hang myself from my windowsill under the moons gaze, to give her one last thrilling laugh before I end this terrible comedy?

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Such kindness shouldn’t be reserved for a being called me. If I were to die, I want to go out beautifully or at least in a way I can be remembered.

I’ll make my passing beautiful and bright, filled with colors and flashing lights. A carnival or a song, I just want to be remembered as I pass on.

I am simply so afraid of being forgotten I’d rather kill myself to carve a place in your memory, to dig a hole in your heart and rot there.

I wish to be cruel sometimes, to make people feel hurt when I don’t give them love, yet I can’t bear to say no when they are in need or not at all.

Maybe, if I give all my love, it would be one of the most beautiful ways to die. To die drained of care and kindness, only a husk and a halved soul left on the plate. Even the crumbs were given to the rats, for them to feed on the last bits of my own.

I can’t help but remember something. I would stare at the empty platter with a full set of cutlery, and I would laugh and can’t help but think.

I think as I sit on the dining table with a mother on my right and a stepfather to my left, and I look to the chandelier to only think;

‘I’ve had meals alone, and this feels more suffocating than the fluorescent lights of a restaurant. ’

The one thing I oh so fear, loneliness. Yet I often romanticize it when I’m with the crowd.

Aren’t I such a hypocrite?

I’m very funny, I like to think. I’m so laughable till the point of corruption and pain.

That is why I need to be suffering in itself.

I need to feel as much pain as I can when I die.

To atone for my sins and such. I want to wring myself dry on the pavement, use my organs to feed the dogs and my skin as leather for your books.

Use me in any way possible, so once again I feel as if I am loved.

I want to be loved till the point of change. But I know for someone as wretched and terrible as me, I should not be given such love and kindness.

I am a monster, a terrible person,

Yet I am afraid to shoot myself in the head, and I cling to the idea of being loved and mourned at a funeral.

How funny.

How comedic.

How hypocritical.

So here, have the last of my blood and the last of my words.

I will give you my final note.