Book: Gangstas

Yesterday I wanted to die. I wanted to wrap a sheet around my neck. I wanted to drink all the pills from my dad's first aid kit. I wanted to stroke my wrists with a blade. All I had to do was write twelve pages with the words "I love you."

God and I don't get along. For God, I do not exist. But what is to be done by someone whom even his Devil has rejected?

They say a person gets used to everything, how can I get used to living without him, if all I do is die. You can get used to dying every day, living without it is not getting used to.

I can't smell it anymore. It was weathered out of my clothes, my belongings. His sweatshirt, which I took with me from Amaho, smells like anything but him.

Dad says everything will work out, I'll still find my man - I'm handsome, smart and rich. Why don't they see that the insides are falling out of me, that I walk, hugging myself - I will relax my hands and crumble. That which kept me whole remained there. That which kept me whole does not want me. I don't want myself anymore.

"Pull it out of yourself" - as if so easily, as if it's just rotting flesh - amputate, and then you will live. There is nothing to amputate here. Except for the heart.

They said it would hurt, but I was born a suicide, I climb further. Where I ought to forget - I remember, I hold his hand, I absorb the warmth until I took it away, I stir up my insides, supposedly I don’t notice the smoke coming from there. But, what if the only reason I feel alive is because of him.

He considers me an enemy, but I am an enemy only to myself, because by hurting him, I killed myself.