Every part of me wanted to live, but I wanted the pain to die.

I wanted to live, I did.

Truly fully live, but I could not.

You ate me every day, my soul.

Lost like a peanut in an almond can.

I could not find my way out.

I would drink away my sorrows,

and throw my pain into drugs.

My escape through me into a six-foot hole.

Two years later,

but remorse I feel daily.

Regrets of the day, I almost died.

Flashbacks, and blurry moments.

What felt was right then, 

turned out to be so wrong for others.

Doctors saved me, but I am not sure,

I wanted to be. 

The memories, now haunt me.

I can't be near a pill bottle,

for more than a minute.

Quite frankly, nothing helped me.

Psssh, therapists.

I could never tell this life.

I dug myself out, and crazily enough

I became my destined spirit.

Never even wrote about this day,

as it kills me, like I almost did to myself.

Some still do not understand, 

and question my decisions.

Yet society pushes dignity with death,

for terminally ill patients.

It still is looked down upon.

Suicide.

If we were in the right state of mind,

I doubt we would kill ourselves.

If you were not terminally ill,

I doubt you would kill yourself.

Both of us do not want to die,

We want to rid our pain.

Not so much fly to the sky.

How can you live when your sick.

Or in that state of mind.

We praise equality for all,

and a fair death, but it does not

seem that way at all.