I want to slice my wrists open until blood is flowing down my arms, changing the grey of my life to red, staining the sheets.
But I don’t because it would cause too many questions.
There must be some kinda way out of here. Out of the grey, dead feeling of my brain. Out of the cold of the unfeeling place.
I exist but I do not live. I am grey.
I hate this life.
I used to be alive.