Fucking sick of sympathy.
You think you know more than me
about my thoughts of suicide
when you're the one from whom I hide?
You're the ones who would deride
me, voices that I hear inside
me, telling me I'm fat or sick
or tall or short or weird or thick.
Fucking sick of articles
where people say it's terrible.
They caused the problem long ago
but then again what would they know?
Chronic stress has set my limit.
Crisis really drops me in it:
knowing you're not good enough,
then being told to be more tough,
by people that you know despise
you? People that will tell you lies
to make themselves feel better for it?
They can fuck off. Bleeding hearts,
part of the problem, full of guff.
Drive a car into a wall.
Go too fast and end it all.
Drink too much and then drink more.
Drink 'til you're beneath the floor.
Take a nose dive off a roof.
Book a holiday from truth.
Hate yourself into a grave.
Gone too early? Pass the spade.
All you bleeding hearts that mourn,
where were you when this began?
Your impenetrable cliques
create this suicidal chic.
Dig me up and pull my teeth.
Make a necklace. Now, you see,
you can say that you knew me,
and it was such a tragedy.
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