I was always more in love with my own self-destruction than the drugs or the days I spent becoming frail. I utterly adored my own downfall rather than the lines on my skin or the lines underneath my nostrils. Because, at the end of the day, all I craved was release and to ravage the life that I didn’t ask for. But after countless suicide attempts, I did the most abhorrent act I could’ve ever dreamed of. I woke up, I lived. There’s no greater punishment than living with the misery of breathing through unwanted lungs.
(via sleepless-and-intricate)
