My pen is my medium.
The words are my life.
My fingers curl around the pen,
Gripping it tightly
As I write down my story.
I write,
And write,
And write,
Each word pressing down on me
Fiercely,
Heavily.
My writing becomes furious.
I write down as fast as I can,
Words threading and weaving into each other,
Becoming a jumbled mess.
Anger.
Pain.
Suffering.
It pours from me
As sobs escape.

My hand slows.
My heart slows.
My writing becomes gentler,
Softer,
Kinder.
Happiness.
Warmth.
Comfort.
I breath it in as I write down my story,
My life.

My fingers holding the match bite into my palm,
Reminding me of my purpose.
I am about to end my life.
With each word
Holds a part of me.
With each sentence,
Is who I am.

I light the match.
I touch the paper.
Flames rise up.
I can feel the heat,
The burning of
Myself.
Somewhat painfully,
I watch each word burn to ashes,
Each syllable consumed by this flame.
I watch.
I don't dare to breath.

As the flames reach my name,
I almost close my eyes.
I wince,
I recede,
But I do not look away.
As my name disappears,
So do I.
So do my old feelings,
My old self.
With each ash that floats away,
I feel different.

I am dead.

I breathe.