I wish I was dead; the thought greeted him as reliably as the sun each morning, and like a loving mother tucked him in snugly to bed each night.
The air was heavy, dense. Death wasn’t his desire, it was his escape.
His days consumed by unexplained loneliness; hiding in a crowd of friends.
His nights filled with anxious thoughts and suicidal ideation; waiting for the end.
His lungs felt tired and weary; gasping from their interminable duties.
Undesirable, broken, and unloved; he knew only he was to blame for these feelings;
Love is never owed, Love is only earned.
The air is thick as he pulls it into his lungs; his chest feels compressed under the burden of a breath.
Another day greets him with misery; yet he smiles through thoughts of death.
He suffocates even as he inhales again; useless efforts, his will diminished.
Unable to find relief, it isn’t air he needs; yet still he breathes.
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