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Support Your Local Drug Dealer
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"I’ll tell you the fucking truth, wanting to die is not romantic and all that flowery bullshit you turn into pretty poems makes me grit my teeth. You want to write about the scarlet color of your blood in your bathroom sink and all the slashes on your body that you hide so damn well? Listen, I’m sitting in a school desk surrounded by people that don’t seem to understand me, but if you asked me four years ago where I would be at this very moment then I would have replied with six feet deep. I didn’t fucking think I would be walking through my cities concrete streets today three years ago, I didn’t believe I’d ever get to see another snowfall two years ago- I expected myself to be long gone by the time winter rolled around again, and a year ago I sure as hell thought I would be searching for my soul in another world unlike I our own. Cut the flowery shit out, there’s nothing beautiful about the pain I experienced. For weeks I would exist Instead of live, I would walk encased in a numbness that made my body stone, but inside of me there was someone doing their best to claw themselves out, the screaming in my head and the weight in my bones left me clutching at my head in parking lots and rocking back and forth with my knees up to my chest.
And I did it alone, no one knew how the demons in my body wrapped themselves around every crevice in my brain and how living felt more like surviving. Then I fucking crawled into my mothers lap one night and cried until I choked out the words “I want to fucking kill myself.” That was hard, that was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life but I fucking did it and six fucking months later I am riding a roller coaster completed with ups and downs but I’m here and I’m fucking getting to a better place, a place of contentment and acceptance, a place where I can set every horrible thing inside me free."
It started as a poem and turned into a crappy written rant (via tragicinsanity)
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dipset-forever:

Them Classic Dipset Days
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