I’ve tried so hard to stop living. 

You would think that killing yourself is the easiest thing to do, but it’s like trying to give yourself a papercut on purpose. 

Sometimes accidents happen, and you turn the page a little too quickly, and you wince as you look at your bleeding finger, 

as it stings like a bee. 

You ask yourself,

“How did this happen?” 

as you bandage it to hide your imperfection. 

But it’s different when you hold that paper to your hand,

and watch intently as you slide the edge across your finger, 

you stiffen up and relax again.

You see nothing but an invisible scar erupting with pain and hurt,

still waiting to be released.