You said.


Words from a former lover.
A Christmas-turned-break-up gift.

Then, I uttered Popoy’s famous line
“…and you chose to break my heart.”


On suicide.

I’ve been thinking about “cutting” lately.

I don’t know why.

Maybe not. It could probably the withdrawal thing. Or quarter-life crisis. Or exhaustion. Or it could be just me overthinking about my miserable life, being stuck in the situation, that my youth is taking its toll.

Then, rationalizing it. If I quit now because I’m tired, how sure is it that I won’t be tired on the next lifetime. If I’m losing hope, then hoping that there would be another better place for me, so there is still hope? And if I try now, what if life plays tricks on my evil plans; instead of getting to the end, I get endless hospital bills, and never-ending talks from friends and relatives and some people I don’t know who don’t really care, yet acting like they’ve been with you all your life.

Questions over the will.

I take step away from the ledge.

In another day, when I’m done asking, then I’ll be done.