hotangrybruises:
hotangrybruises:
hotangrybruises:
hotangrybruises:
hotangrybruises:
hotangryb...
there’s just no point, is there?
no. there’s really not, so why do you continue?
sheer stubbornness, i imagine. hanging on for others mostly.
because suicide is selfish, they say.
yeah, but emotionally blackmailing me to stay alive in the face of meaninglessness isn’t selfish. making me suffer beyond my capacity because you made me, or i’m your blood, or because my death would make you sad isn’t selfish. fucking hypocrites.
there was this time i remember, a long time ago, it was winter but not super cold, maybe one or two degrees below, with just that powdery dusting of snow. you know the sort? and i was lying out in the snow, completely naked. we had those three foot fences all around our place, but my mom and dad could have seen me from their window, or p– and i–, our neighbours could have seen me because their fence wouldn’t have blocked anything, and the cold and the snow took me into that zone of pain, and i was handling it fine. but then i heard my mom through the firing of my nerve endings, i heard her wailing over my frozen corpse, and i crawled my ass inside because i couldn’t be her tragedy. my death would and should have been mine. but she was going to make it hers.
i couldn’t have that.
there was that motivation to live, it’s true, not letting her have her tragedy, but be honest. that wasn’t the only thing that you dragged yourself inside for. there was your skin and the firing, prickly, lightning shots of pain, and the call of the luke warm shower that offered scalding anguish without scalding at all. something new. a sensation. always something that you might miss, no matter how hard or shitty things got or get, what if you miss something? what if?
