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SickSickSick

I know staring at every bridge with the lust I have is wrong. I know looking at the tallest of buildings and feeling butterflies in my stomach makes me ill. I know the bottle of poison and the bottle of pills are there for you to use in moderation and I know when my mouth waters for all of it that it is wrong.

But maybe that moment of freefall would let me feel like I’m finally flying. Maybe I’ll get a little drunk first. Get a little high. Maybe I’ll feel so good that it won’t even sink into my brain that I’m on my way out.

I know a few too many people now, though. I’m a little too usual in my current situation. But who knows, people come and go like leaves on a fucking tree and isn’t that nice? Maybe I won’t have to wait as long as fifty-fuckin’-five and maybe only my mother will miss me. And that hurts, I promise it does. But I can also promise this: it hurts every day.

And no, I don’t think I’m okay. But that’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.

Not yet.

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