I dream of suicide. I think of Sylvia Plath and how her happiness was tortured by her genius. Sometimes I wish I was stupid, I wish feelings were something that we’re too good to be wasted on me. I’m pitiful, I choke on the air I breathe and all I want to do is drink until I can’t speak. I remember the night 4 years ago like it was yesterday and I didn’t want to be saved. Sometimes people just aren’t supposed to live past 18. I wish my roommate never called 911, dying was an amazing feeling. At first I started shaking really hard, and then I lost all function in my hands, legs, arms and soon after I was completely numb, I couldn’t even climb up into my bed. My speech was slurred my eyes we’re rolling in the back of my head. I knew I was going to die, but then the ambulance came and they had to revive me, I wish they would have let me die. I feel like I reached all of my accomplishments in life, what else can I be good at? I can’t be good enough for you, because if I was then there wouldn’t be the pain. You’re not the reason I want to die, but you are the reason I’m still alive. I can’t drown in your ocean of lies, deception, and other women. I can’t be your good time. I want a reason to want to live and not just to be living. You aren’t my reason, but it still kills me. I think the next time I do it, I’ll do it right where nobody can see me swallow an entire bottle sleeping pills, where nobody can find me until it’s too late. There are so many other people that deserve to live that have already died. Maybe I should sleep on it and see if suicide is still the only thing on my mind.