I hate to be the one to tell you this,
Especially since you think that I am so strong.
I don’t like to ruin the illusion of myself that you have created in your own head.
But as I sit here and write to you this final time
I know that I have to shatter the fake-imaginary pedestal that you have placed me on.
I need you to see me painted in all my true colours.
I need you to embrace the pain that flows through my veins.
The walls are closing in on me.
As I sit here, in the middle of my room, I can see them moving closer.
I know that this makes me sound crazy.
Actually… correction… I know that I am crazy.
I got a measuring tape out.
I thought that maybe if I could physically see the distance between me and the wall I would be able to stop the suffocation that is taking over my lunges.
However, the constant cycle of measuring the four walls around me is driving me more mad than anything and I don’t think my numbers are accurate.
So now I am sitting in the middle of the cold hardwood floor, watching my once spacious room shrink into a box that could easily fit into the bed of a pick-up truck.
I know, I have no right to be complaining – that is still plenty of space and plenty of oxygen. There is really no reason to complain until my limbs become cramped and the walls begin to break under the pressure.
I know now that my time is limited.
I’ve known this for a while, but now the universe is plotting against me too.
I always figured that when the universe finally started a war it would be a zombie apocalypse or everyone would just finally die off from the mass amounts of pollution.
I never imagined that the universe was capable of killing off individuals one at a time.
I must admit, that I am actively regretting not giving the universe the credit it deserved.
Everything that I was so worried about is still knocking at my door.
I swear to god if I were to open that door my demons would march right in with their vicious, sharp, bloodthirsty teeth bared.
Which is why, I have now moved from the middle of my room to lying in front of my door. My shaking body is using the rest of my energy to hold back whatever is out there waiting for me.
I swear to god when you find me I don’t want to be torn apart and covered in open-flesh wounds and broken bones from the things that were haunting me.
The room is still getting smaller.
I know that this is my own personal hell. I know that for some reason my fate has always been destined to end in personal rubble, bruises that are so deep they have become free tattoos, and scars that have healed over into ugly reminders.
I know that shortly the walls around me will cave in and my demons will tear into my body as soon as it becomes lifeless.
I know that my time to go is tonight.
But, before I stab the kitchen knife that my father just recently sharpened, I needed you to see me for the monster that I truly am.
The voices inside my head tell the truth. They remind me why I deserve to die. Why I have a million demons ready to claim my body. Why I was never good enough in today’s society:
- “Too fat”
- “Too stupid”
- “Too short”
- “Hair’s not long enough”
- “Hairs too long”
- “A Waste of Fresh Air”
The list continues. But you get the point.
I don’t have much time left.
My breath is getting really shallow.
My space is becoming really small.
I have one final request for you. For when you hear about the events that took place tonight:
Please don’t look at the body that will lie in front of you. Don’t see that girl with professional make up, wearing clothes that my parents picked out. Don’t even attend and play into my final moments to grieve my passing.
Just erase me, from your beautiful memory, where I never deserved to be. And forget about the girl who is now finally where she belongs.