Failure.

I'll fail to explain why I'm not picking up.
Why I'm pretending to be asleep and why I missed going out.
I'll fail to find an excuse other than another failed suicide attempt for the 35 stitches in top of my slashed in two tattoo.
I'll fail to open up and tell you I can't decide whether I liked or hated being forcefully obligated to see a psychiatrist.
I'm failing to speak up, sit up, breathe properly or even eat without discomfort.

Failure after failure making me want to curl up in bed and never wake up again, but honey I'm terrified of death.
I'm scared of death, I'm a sinner, I made, make and making mistakes and I'm afraid of going to hell.
I'm afraid of facing God and confessing I failed to do what's right.
I'm afraid to accept the fact I no longer love my parents as much as I used to and I wish one of us would disappear.
I failed to tell mom I borrowed 600 fucking pounds to get stitches that she thought just slamming a bandaid on my slashed skin would heal.
I'm failing to stay awake and I can't fall asleep.

I failed, I'm failing,and I will fail.
And I'm tired, I'm really tired.