I Was Supposed to Die Two Days Ago.
I Was Supposed to Die Two Days Ago. writing stories
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Autoplay OFF  •  2 months ago
or maybe ‘supposed’ is just a bad way of saying it?but I’m tired of explaining why I’m going through what I’m going through. I’m tired of adjusting and meandering pity disguised as concern. I’m tired of having to need to be entirely clear before I am wanted to be understood. I’m tired. I’m just really tired.again, I was supposed to die.
By pixelated-antihero http://pixelated-antihero...

I Was Supposed to Die Two Days Ago.

by pixelated-antihero

or maybe ‘supposed’ is just a bad way of saying it?but I’m tired of explaining why I’m going through what I’m going through. I’m tired of adjusting and meandering pity disguised as concern.

I’m tired of having to need to be entirely clear before I am wanted to be understood. I’m tired. I’m just really tired.again, I was supposed to die.

two days ago, when I was walking on the bridge on the way home.seven years ago, after saying that I couldn’t live for myself like this anymore.

six years ago, stuck with thoughts, tears, and a little blood on the bathroom floor. five years ago, in the middle of a busy, traffic-ridden road, somewhere far from home.

four years ago, on a strange alley nobody would ever think I would go to and hide.

three years ago, while class was in session, excusing myself to find whatever comfort there is.

two years ago, at an ugly, noisy bar tucked away in the city, far away from prying eyes.

a year ago, sitting in front of a window, hating how the sunlight passed through it.seven months ago, waiting to hop on a train going to work, hoping it would’t be as crammed.

six months ago, on a dark, dimly-lit walkway, thinking I’m happy after shopping around.

five months ago, in the middle of a panic attack at an empty staircase at an office.

four months ago, confused between if I really had any other choice to make and trust.

three months ago, lying down on a bed that wasn’t mine, tainted with my nightmares.

two months ago, outside a speakeasy, contemplating on whether I really did myself good.

just last month, waving my legs back and forth as I sat on the edge of a deep-blue abyss.

thirty-seven hours ago, with ink stains on my hands, writing another last letter to leave.

twenty-two hours ago, on the bottom of a shallow pool, choked up on water and laughter.no, I’m not fine. no, I’m not entirely happy with my life.

no, I’m not comfortable with the way I feel right now. no, it’s not my family’s fault. no, it’s not my friends’ fault. no, it’s not my girlfriend’s fault.

no, it’s not the world’s fault,it’s mine. and that’s how I feel about it.I feel too much, I feel too little.

it’s almost always either coming too short or spilling over the edge, not knowing what to do save for clean up after the mess these anxieties make.

I feel extremely lonely even in the middle of people I care about, suffocated by what I once thought was company I’ve always longed for to have and to keep for myself.

I feel crowded even when I am alone. in the middle of a crowd that is this world, noisily making its way from one side of this miserable city to another miserable part of town.

I feel heartbroken even when I hold the hand of someone I’ve loved, still loving, for years.

I feel estranged from people who have called me their own; someone special worth keeping.I’m blind to what I’ve been able to achieve up to this moment, this day, this second in my life.

I’m deaf to the nice things that have once inspired me to take more than just one more step.

I’m mute to the sad thoughts, the inner voices, the cries for help that want to leave my lips.

I’m ageusic to the different kinds of food that always made me feel a lot better in a day.

I’m hyposmic to the smell of fresh flowers, pancakes in the morning, her favorite perfume.

I’m numb to everything except hurt and pain, mostly coming from beneath my own skin.I feel jealous of the people oblivious to the kinds of pain people like me have experienced.

I feel jealous of the people unviolated, unabused, unashamed by both friends and strangers.

I feel jealous of the people strong enough to keep themselves moving despite their woes.

I feel jealous of everyone the people I care about miss being with, talking to, seeking out.

I feel jealous of anyone not having to worry about keeping themselves alive in a day; like simply getting up from bed in the morning.

I’m sorry for not being responsible enough to handle these issues on my own. I’m sorry for falling short on my promises; never being able to reach certain expectations.

I’m sorry for being too dense or too shallow; thinking too much, understanding too little.

I’m sorry for being forgetful of important things, distracted by unwanted thoughts and pain.

I’m sorry for not knowing what to say or what to keep in my head at times that matter.

I’m sorry for running away, distancing myself, wanting to settle these problems by myself.

I’m sorry for not being able to be brave enough to fight back my own demons.I’m sorry for not being able to live up to what I thought I was or could be.

I’m not that person anymore, or at least, I don’t think I am. I’m sorry for hiding behind these words.

right now, I want to say something motivating, inspiring, or moving that you’d look out for your friends better, that you’d love the people who really look out for you,

that you’d remind everyone in your life that have been there even if you thought you didn’t need them, but I don’t have anything in mind.

I mean, why would you take advice from me, someone on the verge of giving up, on the brink of losing it all, on the edge of what I think is life;I don’t know what to say,

and maybe it’s because I’m just tired.but for what it’s still worth, I’m still trying.

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