Paperweight

You never loved me; you loved the sickness in me.

most of us needed a little something extra to be okay.

But wouldn’t you rather be real and flawed, then some synthetic perfect girl who never really lived?”

All of me stitched together and straining at the seams.

My body is both weapon and wound, predator and prey. I will self-destruct without any help.

‘The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off’

I didn’t feel some sweeping, magnificent sense of relief. But I could breathe just a little easier, and that was enough.

It’s bizarre, thinking about the day as anything other than the day of my death.

I’m tired. I’m too tired. I don’t want to do this anymore, the planning, the readying myself for death. It’s exhausting, fighting my body this way. I want to lie down. Pull the covers up.

My desperation isn’t contrived. I am desperate. I have to go, now. If I don’t go now, if I don’t do it now, I never will.