Sometimes I think I don't deserve death. The ultimate punishment I deserve was to endure all that life brought. Death didn't have such. Life brought anyone sufficient pain to loose sanity. I deserved that. Sometimes I catch myself thinking... hoping I was a victim of a horror. I deserved that. When I thought it another time, I doubted. I'm ultra sensitive but I deserved that. I deserved a horrid punishment. Still I longed for death. Sometimes... it was like people knew death was good and they hated self-murders. They knew they choose for something nice. We like seeing each other suffering. There were tonnes of sadists walking around on this planet. They wore nice uniforms, had their hair beautifully combed, spoke with a rich (read: cheap) accent. They all tried closing the opening to freedom. They wanted to have you, till you got dried out, absorbed of all your life fluids. Then you could go, they don't need elderlies, they didn't need weaklings or garbage. 'Eliminate them', their eyes said. I don't deserve death. And that feeling made me long to self-harm. I wanted to mutilate myself terribly. When I was horribly damaged I felt I could go. None of these words will ever come close to the self-hatred I felt for myself. I haven't been able to express it out of fear. I'm mentally easy to manipulate and control. If I wasn't, I would've been dead a long time ago. I lived, simply because I cared. But see, this care was leaking out. Soon I would go anyway.