Untitled 

Isopropyl, do thy will.

I don’t want to hear or feel anymore.

I can’t do this.

It hurts to much.

No hope.

Just waiting to tie that rope.

I’m sick and that’s making me think, that all this is truly my fault.

My friends can’t help that they are happy and beautiful. I no longer take part in my fake charade.

Paper faces and false words are no longer my comfort.

Isopropyl, take 8oz, 2 table spoons, down the hatchet.

This was never yours to begin with. 

You were never supposed to be here.

I did my duty to provide comfort to a mother and father in a foreign land, so they would be accepted and have a child born on new soil.

I can go now.

Please let me go.

If it’s not poison, a rope or a hard fall, then what?

If I have a right to live , don’t I have a right to die? 

Isopropyl, 8oz, 2 table spoons…

Do your worst and let me go.

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Author: The Beast

Writing my experience with depression.

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