I wonder what i did wrong. nothing. maybe. maybe i am wrong. just wrong as a person. Everytime i acknowledge myself, a rush of hate hits me, despair. Selfish rotten person. She saved me, her hand on my head, the cold, cold knife staring at me from underneath the blanket. Oh maybe that was suppose to be my end. Why did i back out? Cowardice? Could be. Vices seem to be innate in me. The cold knife promising relief, freedom, her warm hand providing it. No, this isnt a case of lesbians. Its infact a case of unconditional love, realised only when hatred is mocking me. I wish i had ended it then. Lured by the warm hands, seeking the promise of their comfort always. Death. My freedom. Maybe it isnt too late. Cold knife waiting. Call out to the warm touch. Empty.