Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.