Suicide is like a tornado. The storm is there. You can feel it, it’s panic and screaming and the noises are roaring in your ears. You’re pushed to your limit. You know you can only take so much. It comes quickly, mutilating everything in its path.
It doesn’t matter who you are. These are emotions and you will feel them.
Then through all of the high winds and flying tears there’s the eye of the storm. Complete calm in the chaos. It is quiet here. The waiting is over. The worry is over. It’s all over.
It finally passes and all that’s left is destruction, small destroyed clues of what made up this person. In the wreckage you find everything they left behind, everything they were trying so desperately to escape.
It’s not fair. It’s not reversible. You can’t undo or reset. All you can do is pick up all the pieces and try again tomorrow, hoping you wont fuck up so bad this time.
im really mad because boobs sounds too hilarious, tits sounds too vulgar, breasts too pretentious and any other words just make me want to laugh
what word am i supposed to use while writing
Chest? I don’t know I have this same problem.