I am just a husk of who I once was. My mind erased it’s memories in sight of the atrocities it witnessed. My life is meaningless and insignificant. I’ve come across the point, that I am enveloped by nothing but thoughts of death, and a burning hatred for the world. I am weak and pathetic, but I am no different than the rest of the impotent souls that wander aimlessly around me. I scoff at meaningful things, because to me they are truly worthless. One specific soul I have come to bitterly hate, I do so unreasonably, but continue to, in this blind rage that I have succumbed to. For the longest time I have planned, the same plan, to simply end my meaningless existence when I have come of  age. I am tired and may or may not be able to continue with this.

I continue to scream internally, I ache with the agony that my continued existence causes me, I can only wish for it to end, beg for it to end, although I know, no god would pity me with such mercy. The idea of a god faded from me when I came to learn of the horrid planet that I dwelled on, and that is when I truly began my suffering.

I slice through my own skin to feel anything other than my internal agony. I try to end my life in hopes of something better in the next. I know truly that existence is meaningless, I am worthless, and I can only hope for death.

I return to this place, a document and a place within my own mind, I am still alive, but existing is meaningless. I rip holes into my own flesh in place of blatantly cutting my wrists or forearms. Insects that leave bothersome red marks upon my skin, grant me my wish in allowing me to dig hollow cavities into my flesh. I will always be one thing, no matter how much I change, no matter how many times I am burned or cut, I will always be a scar.

I have become the embodiment of defiling the gods, committing the seven deadly sins like a child plays with toys. The scars across my arms show that I can withstand pain, but I know that pain is meaningless in an ocean of inner agony.

Back again, I've returned here, filled with unfathomable rage. I feel that taking my life would end this pain. The pain that eats at my soul, the foul despair, and the burning hatred, I wish for it all to end.

Here we are me and you. Dwelling over our broken past, we perpetuate our own agony. Suffering within my own shattered mind. Looking deep into my past and bathing in my mistakes, an endless loop of self hatred.

Sometimes while staring into the darkness that is myself, I wonder how deep the abyss reaches. It is only when I realize the abyss staring back at me that I stop enveloping my mind with such worthless thoughts.

I'm here, this place, this void, empty, yet so full of thoughts. Burning and drowning at the same time. I'm spinning endlessly, blinded by the flames my own hatred, and drowning in that endless sea of burning flames. My thoughts are shattered, fractured, like glass. My pain is like I'm on fire, like I'm suffocating, like I'm exploding and imploding at the same time, it feels like all that pain, and no pain is greater than that of the soul.

Perhaps I am broken, I'm not sure if I started in pieces this way, or if I was shattered like a vase. My mind could be hanging by a thread, or it may be a noose, I still can't tell.

I'm here, weaving a cocoon of self inflicted disgust surrounding myself in that cocoon. I poison myself with my own venom, a venom which holds its validity in the form of words. I am but a suicidal spider, caught in his own trap.

Alone, I sit in a crowd of people, lost within my own mind. I venture the baren depths, wondering who I am, and what I’m worth. I feel as though nothing truly matters, and that the world is empty on the inside, but we put on brave faces to keep one another from diving into our dark minds. I wish things didn’t feel so devoid of life, so bland, so colorless. I wish so ignorantly, hoping for things to change, but I am unwilling to change them myself. I feel unable to change things. I feel detached from myself, watching as I destroy who I am.

I want to open up my old wounds, because that pain was the only thing I could ever control. Here I am forcing myself to face my pain, the pain I can't control.

My inconsistencies, my internal conflicts, they enrage me, and the fact that I let them enrage me, simply enrages me more.

Being an avid writer, this is something I will never want to write, or talk about. This thing lies deep within my darkest vaults, surrounded by disgust, buried beneath a mountain of misdirection, and coated in a cement of denial. Passing the denial was a difficult path. Nobody, not even me, could get through my mountain of misdirection, not without a level of determination that could engulf that mountain. Finally, behind a poisonous ball of putrid emotions, a locked furnace of repression sits, within this furnace burns a memory, eternally set ablaze.

This memory sits next to my core, my very being, and it is a part of me, and it burns. I hate myself for it, I’m disgusted, I’m furious, I’m pathetic. This thing makes me want to die, and to kill, to be lost in murderous intent, and blow the f---ing memory straight from my skull.

My self perpetuated hatred shall be my saving grace, as odd as that sounds, I feel I should suffer, not die. I know that this kind of pain is, in its own way, worse than death. So I remain, suffering, I am never willing to end my own suffering. I’m enduring the festering splinter, unwilling to pull it out.

Here I am, forgetting who I am, and seeking the answers back in this space. I try forget the pain I’ve gone through, but the scars remain, branded onto my soul.

Sometimes I look at my darkness, and we stare into each others eyes, we will do our best to destroy our opponent, but to no avail. As things happen, one or the the other takes over and does as he pleases. I try and detach myself from them, to understand them better, but all I see is the darkness consuming the light, and I wonder if their ever truly was any light to begin with.

I sit here with my pain writhing within me, suffering from the most severe mental scar I’ve ever had, it feels permanent and I know that it is.

I drown in my own stupidity, my own blood. I just want this horrid agony to end.

I have tried to kill myself three times in my life, and looking back it had always seemed like the best option for me. Now, even though I feel worthless and like I deserve to die, I don’t want to die. I’ve fallen in love, and right now, I feel like life is worth living, no matter how bad I feel, I’ll suffer with myself, for the beautiful girl I’ve fallen in love with.

The final notes: First, to myself, and those of us who feel nothing is worth our existence, or that our existence is worth nothing: you’re wrong, you are worth something to someone, you just may not know them yet. Second, the authors note: this was the closest I have ever come to writing a suicide note. Each of these paragraphs, or breaks in the timeline, describe how I felt at those moments, and I wrote them trying them express how I felt, so the reality of who I was could take shape, and I could learn to understand myself. Think of my writings as you will, for I cannot change who you are, but maybe I can show you that there are others who understand the pain you will experience in your life, or the pain you are suffering through at this very moment. For those of us who suffer, I say...

I’m sorry.