I hate you, and I hate being alive. I hate that you make me hate being alive. I hate everything about you. I hate how you make me feel. I hate that you are gone. I hate your smile. I hate your friends. I hate that I can not make you happy anymore. I hate your front of disinterest. I hate your reserved demeanor. I hate that I am not over you. I hate your happiness. I hate that I doubt that you are really happy but will never ask. I hate that it has been a month without speaking. I hate being weak. I hate you for making me feel weak. FUCK YOU.
My to-do list spans 90 miles long, but I only have two things I regard with urgency: fucking and dying. Can I kill two birds with one stone? Slit my throat while I ride. Make me cum in a bath of my own blood. Fuck me raw while I bleed out. Death is on the forefront, but I’m smiling as this pretty pink pussy is full.
If only it were possible to overdose on copious amounts of marijuana, then would I truly Rest In Peace…
Is love dead or is love death?
Every 12:12 a small part, & sometimes a very big part, of me always wishes to die.
I sat on the train tracks & cried & smoked a cigarette. The train was not coming, but I was sad I was even there.
I hate the train. I’m afraid of the train. I’m mad every time it comes. I wonder if I can make it in time to die. Then I wonder if I want to make it in time to die.
Really, I don’t hate the train because it can kill me. Or because I want to it kill me. (Do I?) I hate the train because it makes me question myself.
I take pride in my self awareness. Now a fucking mode of mass transportation has me questioning whether I’m ready to take the plunge or not.
I hope I dont live too long.
kill me on a bed of roses, fuck me in a bath of blood