Straight to the point
I was going to kill myself today.
I snooped through my brother's drawers yesterday looking for a computer mouse.
And I saw his gun and I wanted to just take it then and without thinking just end it there.
And I told myself I wouldn't.
But today, I hung out with my best friend.
And it's the happiest I've felt in forever.
But my mental health hit hard.
And I've felt like I'll never have better days than the past few.
So I want to end it.
I still want to.
I know I have more to live for, but I don't want that.
I want less to live for.
In the end I'm not making it.
And the more I have to live for, the more pain I'll inflict.
But I don't think I can help it anymore.
I've felt to scared to ask for help.
And I still do.
And if I'm being honest I don't want help.
I've haven't felt alive since I can remember.
So what's the point in actually being alive?
If I am dead at some point soon.
I probably love you.
Or loved you.
I want to write individual letters to people and just say goodbye.
But I'm not sure I can survive long enough to even do that.
So I'm sorry.
I'm sorry if I die.
I think I'll make it through the night.
But I don't know if I want to.