How is it possible that I am still here? How is it, despite the fact that sometimes, my heart feels like it is slowly being crushed by the weight of planets, that I am still living? What tethers me to this world so violently, enough to keep the life blood in my veins flowing relentlessly against time, fighting for all it's worth but with so little sense of purpose or freedom?
It becomes so unbearable, that pain. So sharp, and piercing, and quick, but driven in too deep that I can feel my organs throbbing against the invading cold, glinting metal, beat per beat.
Without wanting to sound more melodramatic than I am doing so already, I must confess that suicide has always been a shadow, stalking me silently ever since I was fifteen, sixteen. Back then, it was merely a matter of crying for help -- which I have gotten from a lot of the friendships I have made during the time, of which I am eternally grateful. But now, it is inexplicably blinding. I honestly cannot tell what it is borne from, even if most people would believe otherwise.
For now though, I will be keeping myself alive and ignore the incessant malevolence rupturing my heart -- as I have done so in the past. Tomorrow I will wake up beaten, yes, bruised, yes, but still very much alive. Although honestly, I do not mind not waking up anymore.
