Deaths Whisper

The urge to die is whispering in my ear when i cannot fall asleep at night, or when my teacher is talking in class; he is inevitable. He knows he gets to you so you sit there in your own world of despair that no one can hear or see. You have conversations with him daily, you know when you talk to yourself? He’s the one always listening, gathering my insecurities to scream at me in my dreams or during my conversations; it’ll just erupt with horrid thoughts of me hanging from my ceiling fan, or laying in my bathtub drowning, or on my floor bleeding out, begging for someone to save me, but no one will. They say i can’t blame my mental illness that’s fading all real sounds around me out, and replacing them with the ones of me screaming for my life, but it’s all in my head right? The scars on my body are my fault right? I didn’t have the skills to fight off the urge. Trying to kill myself is selfish right? Those thoughts that DO NOT go away they take up every motion, word, and blink of the eye I have and control it until i have regained consciousness by letting my demons in and stream that blade down my wrists, hips and thighs. I’d rather die than being alone alive. Those burns on my hands? Where my addiction starts. Oh and those thoughts when i pass an intersection hoping someone won’t be paying attention and run into the passenger side where I’m sitting. Or when I’m walking in the middle of the street and then lay down hoping someone will run over me. I’m too much of a coward death will tell me and i get up knowing he’s right. So when I get home i  want to die so badly that i will hold a knife/pair of scissors in my hand and place it on my stomach harder and harder ,or on my wrists an just hope I’ll have the courage to do it this time. But I end up not doing it, and then I sit there alone and crying hopeless and torn apart by everything around me. I am hopeless I look in the mirror and immediately point out my flows, how fucked up i look. How gross my body looks. How pale i am. The way I honk when I laugh or cough and people laugh. And then scoff with how embarrassing it is to be insecure. Death laughs as if he’s been waiting for me to admit to myself how unworthy i am of life. Why are deaths doors more inviting than lifes? Why can’t I ever win?