MonochromeMind
Artist-ish
- Jan 26, 2026
- 52
I know this is similar to a discussion I just posted, but it's a different discussion, so I thought it was warranted.
Is my suicide note a bit too much to handle? I think it might be a bit extreme, but I don't know if that's just the stupid part of my brain talking. I wrote it as if it was a story, at least at the beginning, because that's what I'm comfortable with.
Nothing Noteworthy
Moonlight was shining upon the blood dripping from the knife, as I clutched it firmly in my hand. I stared at the corpse, lying on the dirty ground beneath me. I could clean the blood and bury the body, but it wouldn't change a thing. The body would still be there, below the ground, haunting me.
Nobody would forgive me. Nobody would care if I've changed. I know this, because nobody would believe me. I've lied too many times. I've failed too many times. Once this was discovered, I'd just fall into this hole I've been digging for myself, and I might as well be a corpse in the ground, too.
I didn't want to be here, anyways. I haven't gone because I've been scared of getting caught. I used to be so incapable. If I was capable of this, I had to be capable of taking my own life, right?
The highs never match the lows. They only exist to taunt and torture me. I spend my life chasing them as they go higher, only to fall harder. I resort to coping mechanisms that only hurt everyone around me, and feel hollow. I'm unintelligent. I'm unattractive. I'm just a weak, addicted liar.
I haven't truly been myself for one moment in my life. Anyone who sees a glimpse of who I really am never forgives me. I don't blame them. I'm just too good at lying. I can't make things worse by opening up, and having the last of my freedom taken from me. I need to draw and listen to music to cope, and I need to be sure I can kill myself. Without a pencil, paper, and music, I would have been dead a long time ago.
As this body continues to decay in front of me, I stand here, writing, because it's all I know anymore. This is comfortable, at least to a degree. I feel safer as someone else. But ultimately, if I'm always someone else, is this me? Who am I, truly? I drive myself insane even trying to understand myself.
The boy you loved never existed. You should be happy I'm finally ridding you of a lie. I've been living purely because I've been forced to. I'm just an unforgivable monster. I can't change. I can't heal, either. I'm just a villain, finally getting what he deserves, at the end of the story.
You want to see me in Heaven. I don't believe in Heaven. But who you want to see in Heaven doesn't fucking exist. Imagine if you were friends with a murdererer. If he never told you what he did. Then he killed himself, and you learned what he did, and that you believed he was going to Hell.
Stop crying, and start cheering.
Is my suicide note a bit too much to handle? I think it might be a bit extreme, but I don't know if that's just the stupid part of my brain talking. I wrote it as if it was a story, at least at the beginning, because that's what I'm comfortable with.
Nothing Noteworthy
Moonlight was shining upon the blood dripping from the knife, as I clutched it firmly in my hand. I stared at the corpse, lying on the dirty ground beneath me. I could clean the blood and bury the body, but it wouldn't change a thing. The body would still be there, below the ground, haunting me.
Nobody would forgive me. Nobody would care if I've changed. I know this, because nobody would believe me. I've lied too many times. I've failed too many times. Once this was discovered, I'd just fall into this hole I've been digging for myself, and I might as well be a corpse in the ground, too.
I didn't want to be here, anyways. I haven't gone because I've been scared of getting caught. I used to be so incapable. If I was capable of this, I had to be capable of taking my own life, right?
The highs never match the lows. They only exist to taunt and torture me. I spend my life chasing them as they go higher, only to fall harder. I resort to coping mechanisms that only hurt everyone around me, and feel hollow. I'm unintelligent. I'm unattractive. I'm just a weak, addicted liar.
I haven't truly been myself for one moment in my life. Anyone who sees a glimpse of who I really am never forgives me. I don't blame them. I'm just too good at lying. I can't make things worse by opening up, and having the last of my freedom taken from me. I need to draw and listen to music to cope, and I need to be sure I can kill myself. Without a pencil, paper, and music, I would have been dead a long time ago.
As this body continues to decay in front of me, I stand here, writing, because it's all I know anymore. This is comfortable, at least to a degree. I feel safer as someone else. But ultimately, if I'm always someone else, is this me? Who am I, truly? I drive myself insane even trying to understand myself.
The boy you loved never existed. You should be happy I'm finally ridding you of a lie. I've been living purely because I've been forced to. I'm just an unforgivable monster. I can't change. I can't heal, either. I'm just a villain, finally getting what he deserves, at the end of the story.
You want to see me in Heaven. I don't believe in Heaven. But who you want to see in Heaven doesn't fucking exist. Imagine if you were friends with a murdererer. If he never told you what he did. Then he killed himself, and you learned what he did, and that you believed he was going to Hell.
Stop crying, and start cheering.
