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I am pen pals with the reaper and although he never writes back he’s my closest friend. I write him daily though not through the words of a young man but rather through the pain I display on my wrists. I see him everywhere, opportunities to meet him laying in the kitchen draw, draw upon my wrists the art of suffering and pain as I fight alongside nobody against the Tyrant that is my own mind. Loosing battle after battle becoming bloodier as I try to campaign my happiness. I tell him all of this but no response. People around me hang with each other making memories with friends when all I remember is hanging to try meet mine. He was there that day in January all those years ago when I stood watching leaves blow around as I blow up any situation in which I can not meet my friend so I can tell him I lost the war. So there he helps me he pushes the chair from under me and there we hung for a few moments when my legs shook and eyes felt like they were bursting out of my skull just to see one last thing. Though he had to leave me then my friend and I were closer than ever before. I hit the ground neck bruised blood pouring from all the letters I had written him that day and placed along side those goodbye notes to my family in which I apologised. I wrote ‘I am sorry!’
I want to meet my maker and ask him why he put a toy as broken as me into production knowing that no one will want a toy that hates itself so much it’s forgotten what it’s really like to feel.

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