does it even matter that once again I lie in my bed, tears streaming down my face, not wanting to exist?

it isn't the first night. it won't be the last.

even my depression is average nowadays. like me.

i don't want to live a life crippled in the cess pit of mediocrity. i want to set myself on fire, so for one brief moment i light up the world instead of darken it.

my fingers scratch across my wrists, gauging at my skin, desperate to tear apart my veins and end my life.

they look so innocent, my veins. a tree branch frozen in ice. what i want to destroy is much deeper and well hidden. it is my very essence. lurking inside me like a dark fog which i can never exorcise.

self harm is pointless. the only thing that will cure me of me is self-annihilation. i hate my gutlessness. how hard is it really, to kill yourself?

a gun.
a noose.
pills.
a bridge.
drowning.
burning.
suffocation.
poisoning.
car crash.
drugs.
slit wrists.

with so many options i feel like a child in a sweet shop. i want to experience them all. i deserve it. if only i could kill myself twice.