1.2.3.4.5.6.

That's how many new scars I have. That's how many more reasons I have to hate myself. I don't know what it did for me. I barely bled. It wasn't deep. I wanted more and more and more. I told myself I had to stop. I told myself it wasn't helping me. Still I cut, I bled. I wanted to scream. I was too numb to cry. I have made my body even more hideous. I am ugly. I am a monster. I deserve to die. I deserve to rot in hell for my sins. I am fat. I am a failure. Suicide has never seemed more inviting. I just need the money. I just need the gun. Then it will all be over. I can't wait. Sunday is my mother's birthday. It will kill her when I die so shortly after her special day. Why am I like this? I am a bad daughter. Just another reason for me to die. I feel like taking pills. I just want to escape this feeling. I am relapsing. I am falling quickly back into my old self. How welcoming it is. First the eating disorder, now the cutting, and soon to be another suicidal act. I am falling. I am falling quickly. I don't know if I want to be caught. I am giving in, giving up. I will die soon. I will be free. I don't care what awaits me on the other side. I'm sure I'll rot in hell but it is a price I'm willing to pay. I don't like this up and down roller coaster ride. I just want a constant. Hell is a constant. Constant suffering maybe but I can handle it. I am ready. I want this. I want out. I want death. Please death come and take me by the hand. I want you. I crave you. Take me away.