Suicide Notes Never Sent

Insanity

I sit on the curbside,
wishing to understand.
I pull out a cigarette,
I have given up on life.
They say smoking is slow suicide,
but maybe that's what I'm aiming for.
I blow out a smoke ring and stare down,
I ponder on my reflection in the puddle of water below me.
What have I done to myself?
My eyes are black like the demons inside my head,
they are no longer maple syrup brown like they long used to be.
My smile is no longer straight nor my hair healthy,
I question how I let myself get like this.
Is it because I wanted to let go?
Is it because so many people broke me that I was tired of fixing myself?
I place my head in my hands against my eyeglasses.
My head twists into a migraine and I question my well being.
The numbness has completely taken over.
I see car lights approaching in the distance,
inching closer and they aren't stopping.
They're nearly 10 feet in front of me still accelerating,
I whisper to myself "finally," and everything is painful, black, and cold.