classify text {gangguan, kebencian, porno, penyakit psikiatri atau mental, sifat perkauman, penghinaan agama, selamat untuk bekerja, mencederakan diri sendiri, seksis}

teks: Another post written at 3 am about wanting to die.My father was a man that realized he had a fear of heights mid way jumping into fatherhood. He realized that a life void of drugs, was too much for him to bear. When addiction clawed it’s way from inside of him, nobody was left to clean up the pieces. I was only a baby when addiction, leaked it’s broken faucet muddy tap water into my footie pajamas. Addiction was the bedrock that set the foundation of my parents marriage. Addiction was the third partner in parent’s bedroom. Regret and a whole lotta pain only peaked their head through the cracks on the bedrock when their wasn’t enough cement “I hate yous” eroded inside. Jail was my parent’s favorite anniversary spot when they got caught stealing to feed their addiction again. I learned to love through expensive gifts so that way I could always buy my happiness. I learned to judge how much a man loved me from how much money he was willing to spend. I learned to love from a woman who didn’t know the difference between bitterness and affliction, couldn’t find the anger she tried so desperately to escape. I spent half of my life searching for myself in the bottom of boys with pretty smiles, and hard hands. Ive spent all of my life questioning why it was easier for my parents to love drugs than me. Questioning why it’s easier for me to love boys who don’t love me back. Because of this fact I didn’t question when I was raped. I like to pretend that loving myself is easy, but it’s soo damn hard. Especially when I’ve been conditioned to believe that I am worth nothing more than the punchline. Nothing more than a woman or a black bitch but if I’m really lucky I get to a female. That is until I’m to loud to be feminine, too obnoxious to stand in my womanhood, too eww to be considered anything more than not enough. When I was 14 I walked in on my grandmother snorting cocaine, perhaps this is the reason why I couldn’t bring myself to say grandmother until my great grandmother took her last breath. After I was raped, I didn’t feel like caring anymore. So I purposely endangered my life. Sometimes I wish I was murdered, instead of raped. It’d be easier that way, life after death should be easier that way.  I’ve spent my whole life on a calligraphy crash course called self destruction, and I can’t stop now. I’m ready to die, but the strength I need continues to allude me, confuse me.
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