I just recently came across this from about a year back and found it quite poetic so I thought I would share.

Don't talk to me. It makes everything worse.Death becomes more persistant. Gnawing at my mind. Everlasting darkness would be a relief. Soothing, quiet, unassuming. Darkness. Pushing me to do anything pushes me closer to everlasting darkness. Don't want to get out of bed, don't want to leave the house.
Red is a soothing friend, trickling along skin, staining things with a simple touch. Red wants to see me again, clawing at my mind, screaming to get out. Screaming, scratching, constant nagging. Want it now. Urges to run into walls.Bash head. Kick, scream, cry. Punch me. Pain is a constant, familiar companion. I no longer recall the voice of happiness. Occasional whispers, but I forget, the presence receding as quickly as it came.
Everything must go away before death becomes a lover rather than a flitting visitor. Wings of black velvet, inviting, soft, unassuming. Stroking at my mind. Don't want it but acceptance would be a relief. Silence.

And while I was typing this out my father was nagging me to put his washing on the line for him while he goes out and does what he wants instead of finishing his own damn washing himself. Thanks, that offer to go out and get drunk with my friend tonight is sounding more and more inviting...if I had money. Though I do have half a bottle of vodka...