Suicide Note Number 38
To whom it may concern...
To whoever is destined to find this journal.
Tell my mom I'm sorry to have been such a waste of time. I'd have been better if I just knew where to begin, but I couldn't find the starting line.
Tell my dad I'm sorry I could never be the daughter he wanted or the son my brother is. Tell him I'm sorry to put this kind of burden on you and mom, I bet you never thought you'd be planning your 14 year old's funeral and I can't say I'm sorry enough.
Tell my older sister that I wish I could be as strong as her. She went through so much while I've lived through nothing but my own thoughts until now, and I'm the first one dead. I admire her strength to stand.
Tell my brother if he would just take off those damn headphones for once in his life then maybe he'd hear.
Tell my little sister that she has so much ahead of her, but she must take her hands away from her eyes to see others' struggles to truly understand.
Tell Megan that I'm sorry for being such a piece of shit for a friend. Tell her that I didn't deserve her.
Tell Emily that I'm sorry I wasn't what you needed me to be, all I could be was a friend who held your hand through hell.
Tell Anthony to allow his words to go through more gates before they exit his mouth, for words are like knives, making deep cuts in one's being.
Tell Anna 'my son, I'm so proud of you. Dad.'
Tell Addy that I wish we could've talked more, tell her she is a good person.
Tell McKenna that she may have been a good best friend until 6th grade, but when she turned 13, that's when I would've thought things would get better, when instead, she just turned around and stabbed me in the back.
Tell Mary that when I see her in hell, we are going to have words that will torture her soul until it burns.
Tell Kymberlee that I miss her, she was one of the best friends I could've asked for in this shit hole excuse for a town, but I just wasn't good enough.
Tell Margo that I know she's only doing her best, that's all I can ask for.
Tell whoever the hell is sitting in front of the pearly gates to let the innocent pass
Tell my grandfather that I know I might not have known you as well as I wanted to, but I remember you and I fucking miss you
Tell my twin brother you never had a chance, I hope you are flying high with the angels who deserve you for you were too pure for the wars that wage on this earth
Tell all my other dead siblings I wish you didn't have to die so young, if I could trade your lives for mine, you would see the light of day now. I promise on my soul.
Tell my uncle to never do that again, never hurt my family like that again.
Tell the 4 who raped me, nevermind, I'll tell them myself.
Tell Mrs Fanta that I don't care if she thinks she's doing a good job, I'll see her in hell anyway.
Tell Mrs Kruckenburg that I can't tell if she really cares more about the student or her job.
Tell Oliver that I'm proud of them.
Tell Cata that I can only try so hard, but you have to meet me half-way.
Tell Via that they are going to be ok, I know it.
Tell Hallow that they'll be ok, their kindness will never be in vain again.
Tell Alisha that no matter how much I want to let go, she'll still have multiple pieces of my heart, and I can't honestly say I will ever get them back.
Tell all of my friends that I can't thank them enough for caring about a loser like me.
Tell her that I'm sorry I only made things harder, that I'm sorry I didn't think about her feelings, that I'm sorry I wasn't good enough or strong enough to help walk her through the tunnel, that I'm sorry I couldn't have just kept my mouth shut like I normally did, that I wish I could've been a better friend to her, that I only want the best for her, and if that is not me, then let it be, that I just want her to be happy, to be ok. And if that doesn't involve me, then so be it. I'll be ok because it'll be ok for her. I cross my heart, plan to die. Shoot a bullet between my eye if I lie.
Tell food that I don't understand why it must be heaven and hell for people like me.
Tell the ceiling fan, my bedroom floor, the concrete outside, the bathroom tile, whichever it ends up being, that it was a nice final resting place.
Tell my bed that I'm sorry I spent days in it because I physically didn't have the will power to convince my body that it wouldn't collapse upon touching the ground.
Tell my pillow I'm sorry for the tears.
Tell my black clothing that I'm sorry it was always stained red.
Tell my past suicide notes that they can't be poetry, because as poetic as death is, it only works if you're actually dead.
Tell every failed suicide attempt that there might be days when I wish I had succeeded just once before all of the shit that's happening now, but every once in a while, I'm kind of glad I failed. Because now, I have more time to tell people what they mean to me, what they have done for me, and it also gives me more time to try to repay them.
Tell music it was one of my few remaining comforts from earth.
Tell books I found more comfort between their pages than in the ones around me.
Tell my art that I never did appreciate it enough.
Tell my anxiety to go to hell.
Tell my turrets to fucking sit still.
Tell my schizophrenia to shut the fuck up.
Tell my depression that I almost fucking had it. I had it in my finger tips, but then it turned the tables. I almost fucking had you.
Tell my suicidal thoughts that I could've shoved them in a bag and buried them with myself, but I wish to rest in peace.
Tell my insomnia I'm finally sleeping, motherfucker.
Tell my body that I'm sorry it endured as much pain as it did.
Tell my past self that I'm sorry depression had to kill her before her life even began. I'm sorry that I had to kill her.
Tell my future self that I'm sorry that I took they life too.
Tell my life I'm sorry it didn't go out with a figurative bang, but instead, a literal one.
Tell my scars that I hope they never disappear.
For every one of them is a word, a small piece of a bigger plan.
Thanks to them,
I've got one hell of a final testament.