Is It Worth It?

Cold and bitter is the metal on my tongue.
Bite down, teeth grind against the hard surface.
Eyes squeezed shut, deep calm breaths.
The bullet is harsh, no mercy here.
Nothing is felt when I fall to the ground.
My deep red blood is bright and beautiful against the white walls,
so pure and innocent, til I stepped in and ruined them
with a stain that will never leave.
But how do I witness this, when I am the one dead?
'Tis a dream I envision now.
I would never do such a thing in reality.
Would I?
Is this life so horrible that I must end it with one poor decision?
Am I so selfish to put my loved ones through suffering, because I couldn't tough it out?
But can they really ask me to live through this hell to save them the depression, when they do nothing to help me?
How dare they, when the sad truth is neither of us can live without the other.
The small spats can be forgotten, but death affects us eternally.
But when I am sad and hurting, it's hard to remember the good times, and almost impossible to stop myself.
Wouldn't it be better if we always thought to ourselves:
How could I ever do such a thing?
Then maybe the tragedy could be forgotten, suppressed again, though only temporarily.