The things I wish I could tell you, stay trapped inside me, in the well of tears I silently shed alone. I hate my life, and I know it’s probably my own fault. I can’t get past my grief, it eats me from the inside out, every day. It’s been eleven years but sometimes nothing changes, nothing makes it okay, nothing helps you accept the one you lost, and carry on.
If there was a button or a switch I would’ve turned it off, long ago. I would reach out to you if I thought it would make any difference, if I thought you could help, if I thought there was anything you could do but feel burdened by me. I carry my own burdens, I walk alone, and I choose to. I know you can’t help me. I reached out once before, long ago, and I know it scared you to think that I wanted to die, to think that I could be in a place so dark I might never come out of it.
Well, I know now my real options. I just want you to know that I tried. No matter what happens in the end, I just want you to know that I’ve felt hopelessly depressed for well over a decade and I’ve tried. I’m not the selfish one here, no matter my actions. I just need you to know that.