My bed has always played savior as I sought refuge from my thoughts, seeking asylum from my sanctioned brain, I thought secrecy was my only option. I thought a safe haven was where I dreamed covered in dark sheets to hide the blood that I bleed. Dark covered pillow cases hid tear drops that fell from an abyss of abandonment. Placed over my head to shield the sound of what yields me. My blanket was my security. But nothing could protect me from myself.Nothing could secure my sanity or preserve my judgement. A couple of nights ago, I committed suicide in my sleep. I slit the throat of all the words that I had wrote.And hung memories on the wall, from a noosewrapped in bloody clothing and bandages. I laid there in my bed, dead. Sheets covered in the soot of my own sorrow. I was mentally ill, sick… Of my own existence.