Being Suicidal It started with a heartbeat. We learned, early in #life, that our heart beats, and that if it stopped, we would perish. Childhood was simple. Correct? The worst thing that could happen, in our wee minds, was for the vicious monster living under our bed to come after us. He never did. He waited. Patiently, comfortingly. Darkly. He waited for his moment, and crept in unnoticeably. And you began to doubt yourself. And you lost a sliver of that happiness, that innocence. And eventually, you felt that you were worthless. You gave up on yourself. You, that ambitious child who had once refused to give up on anything. You gave up, on yourself. And the monster grew stronger. He gained power, his sinister scheme moving perfectly, the way he meant for it to go. And you hate #life now. You believe that it is empty, that it is dead. There is no purpose for you here. There couldn't be, no... You deserve to be hated. Broken. Hurt. You look at those knives in the kitchen drawer, that used to be for cutting the crust off of PB&J's, and now.. It belongs near you. Near your skin. You long to hurt yourself. To cut, slice, penetrate that deserving, useless skin that is yours. To see the blood spill and cry those tears. And forget the mental pain for a second. And soon, you will cut, and slice and bleed till your heart stops. And so it ended with a heartbeat. The heartbeat of a person, who never had a chance. (this is just based on personal experience, I love everyone)