Suicide Helpline

- b e f o r e | a f t e r -

I write this to you on the 25th of December // 1 month after we first talked.

I'm going to die on Jesus' supposed birthday.

Dear Super-girl, 

You can stop reading now.

I know you want to.

I know that you hate me.

You must.

You have to.

If you don't then all the tears that we shed together were a lie.

I'm not sorry.

For what I did, I mean.

I'm not sorry for bulldozing into your life.

I'm selfish.

But we've already established that.

Or, at least, I have.

I guess that's why I'm writing this.

I don't know why I'm writing this.

Why am I writing this?

There's no point.

You made a mistake, Cleo. You trusted me enough to change. You thought that you could change me. Me. It's almost laughable. After every little thing that I had done. After lying to you. After using you in my own sick little game of trying to kill myself.

I'm not sorry for that either.

I think that it would make things a whole lot more complicated for us both if I was.

So I'm happy that I'm not.

I am so, so happy that I am not sorry.

This isn't a love letter.

Or if it is, it's a pretty screwed up one.

You know, considering the fact that by the time you read this I will most likely be sprawled on my bathroom floor with a knife in my hand (like one of those really depressing movie scenes you told me about that always make you cry).

No longer breathing.

I think it's better that way.

Let me rephrase that; it is better that way. This way. Don't try and deny that I did not make your life hell on earth. You told me yourself, whether you meant it or not. You probably didn't. It was probably just a jibe. A jibe at me for being the jerk that I am. I deserved it. Didn't mean that it didn't hurt though.

Don't cry.

I swear to God (that I don't believe in by the way but I'm pretty sure that you could have guessed that from my not so saint-like behavior) that if you cry I will find some sort of way to rip myself out of the cage of death and haunt you for the rest of your life.

That almost sounded poetic.

Almost as poetic as my very much timely death.

Even you have to admit that my time was up. We both knew it. I'd poisoned the world enough. Poisoned you enough. 

So. Don't cry.

I'm not worth your tears.

I think, in the midst of all of this chaos inside of my mind that I do love you.