I'm tired of doing what I do.
I'm tired of sinking my knife into hearts, depriving people of their life.
I'm tired of pulling the trigger and hearing my victims' helpless cries as they call out for help they know won't come.
I'm sick of gripping their throats with my rough hands, waiting for their last breath to escape their lips.
I'm sick of having innocent people's blood on my hands, staining my skin, my heart, my soul.
But what does it matter?
I still have taken countless undeserving souls.
I deserve to be locked up.
I deserve to have my body ripped into pieces, one for each life forcefully taken.
I deserve to die.
So what does it matter?
I can end it all right now.
But it won't take away the fact that I'm a murderer.