Wannabe suicidal

The cold wind toys with my dark, ebony hair, throwing it in my face like it has a personal grudge.The cold metal of the bridge railing bites my smooth, unblemished skin. Without a second thought, I throw myself off the bridge, wind rushing past my ears, deafening me to the world that quickly flies past. My body hits the water, but it feels more like concrete than what is supposed to be liquid. This fall had killed a lot of people, so why not me?" I counted on you, stupid bridge", I mutter indignantly as I spit out a mouthful of muddy water. I sigh, since surviving was not my goal here. I drag my soaking wet self from the river, swimming to shore. I'd try drowning, but I did so last time. It didn't work. I step onto the rocky riverbed, wet, tired, and way. Too. Alive. I slowly walk home to my apartment as if I didn't fail to commit suicide 15 minutes ago. I don't look away from the sidewalk, not even when some boy wolf-whistles at me. I flip him off without sparing him so much as a glance. I've done this before: he just doesn't know when to give up. He squawks indignantly as I breeze past. I take the elevator; 4th floor as always. I unlock my door with the keys i keep around my neck, stepping into the 2 room apartment. I walk over to my table without taking off my shoes, sitting down on a chair that creaks obnoxiously. I grab a pen and cross off 'jumping off bridge' from a faded notebook. I sigh, running my dirty fingers through my now dry hair in frustration. It's been two months, two months since I've wanted to end it all. I swallowed my entire bottle of antidepressants and headache medicine to try and kill myself. Since it didn't work, I tried again. And again, and again. Every single time I tried, I failed miserably. If I shot myself in the head, the gun would not shoot. If I tried stabbing my chest with a knife, the blade would snap. I even bleeding myself out, but my cut wrists closed up in under a minute. Now here I am, alive, depressed almost out of ideas. "Ok, one last try... for now." I snap the notebook shut, tucking it into my coat pocket with the gentleness of a pissed off coyote. I head to my bathroom, letting the cold water clean my muddy hands. Why did God even invent mud?! I dry my hands and look in my small, relatively clean bathroom mirror, staring at my reflection. My eyes are dark, black if you will. Underneath them are dark circles that make me look like 'a drug addict', my elder neighbor constantly reminds me. I push my messy hair off my face, wrangling it into a messy bun. As if that could hide how dirty it really is.