I realize I imagine it still– slitting my wrists. No, not exactly; not so much that action of slitting as the sensation of having your wrist slit. A numbing, tingling sensation and hands going cold, limp and weak.
I’m so angry– angry at the world, angry at everyone for being such a disappointment. But most of all, angry at myself, and thats’s the worst of all, the one that makes everything else crumble.
What is the point of it?
Too often, it is. The number of times I wish to disappear. Too often, to not exist. Too often, that there’s no point. Feeling too helpless, useless and trapped.