8th grade, thirteen years old.
That’s me.
Has two close friends with depression
and can think of another seven in the grade who also do.
That’s me.
Knows three people who have attempted suicide,
five who have slit their wrists,
a girl who had such a bad panic attack
she almost died,
three people who have starved themselves.
That’s me.
Only knows these few struggles of a few people.
Knows there are probably countless more
thirteen
year
olds
who have to battle their own inner demons
on a daily basis.
Thanks God everyday
that she doesn’t know what these demons look like
and hopes she never has to.
That’s me.
Wishes she could just help take away her friends pain
but can’t because she doesn’t
have the slightest idea what it feels like
but she wishes she oh so wishes
that she could somehow
convince everyone that they matter
because they do
they all do.
She believes any person anywhere can and will
bring value to the world when given a chance
if only we could make them see that.
No one deserves to die!
That’s me.
8th grade, thirteen years old.
That’s me.
Nov 20, 2019
Nov 20, 2019 at 8:17 PM UTC
There was a time when I called you friend.
There was a time when every secret
that I kept locked up inside me
was unlocked in order to be told to you.
There was a time when we would stay up until midnight
talking about everything under the stars,
about life about love about sadness about joy.
All my thoughts were told to you.
It was nice.
It was really really really nice.
To know there was someone I could trust.
Someone who knew just by looking at my face
that I needed a hug.
Someone that I could share my darkest secrets with.
Someone who would be there for me
until the very end.
At least that was what I thought.
Until one day you didn’t text back.
One day you didn’t ask me how I was doing,
if I needed to talk.
One day you didn’t notice
the look in my eye,
the look of me about to crack into a million pieces.
You had always noticed that look before.
You grew distant.
Our friendship was falling apart
and while I tried desperately to pick up the pieces
and put it back together again
you watched it crumble.
Like a flower starting to wilt,
I tried to water it everyday
hoping it wouldn’t die.
I put it in the windowsill
where it would get the most light,
but water and sunlight can’t help a plant
that you seemed to be poinsing behind my back.
We stopped hanging out.
We exchanged a few words in the hallway
now and then
and maybe if you felt like it you would give me a call.
Maybe.
Nothing like the friendship we use to have.
Nothing.
Now all I’m left with is memories.
Memories of a time where I didn’t have to fight
my inner demons alone
because you always stood by my side
with a sword and shield
not letting any of them get to me.
Now I just stand on trembling legs
telling the monsters I’m not scared of them
but I am so so scared.
I miss you.
I know you might not feel the same
but that does not make what I feel any less real
and I hate that I feel this way I really do.
I wish I could just erase you from my mind
because you can’t miss
something you never had.
But it doesn’t work that way does it?
You told me our friendship could last.
And I believed you.
How stupid, stupid I was.
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 7:56 PM UTC
Sorry isn't good enough.
Sorry doesn't mean you will stop doing what you do.
Sorry doesn't mean that I now trust you again.
Sorry doesn't mean your actions will change in any way shape or form.
Sorry doesn't mean that our relationship can now go back to what it used to be.
Sorry means "I know I stabbed a knife in your back. It didn't occur to me that it would hurt. I'll try to remember that next time."
They never remember next time.
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC
The walls are bare
and impossible to break down.
No way in.
and no simple way out.
The windows are boarded shut,
with splintering wood.
The shredded shades are drawn,
to **** any possible hope
of even a sliver
of light.
A single bulb hangs from the ceiling,
long since burnt out.
The hard concrete floor
is cold beneath her bare feet.
A wooden chair
stands in the center of the room,
but she prefers to sit on the floor.
Thinking that maybe,
hopefully
if she curls up enough
she’ll no longer be there.
Then, she can simply vanish into thin air.
Is it bad that she thinks of such a thing?
Yes it is
she’s just thirteen.
They wonder why she feels this way,
her life is perfectly lined up
with every detail planned out
and every possible event accounted for.
The perfect life she is expected to live.
She will do well in school,
get A’s in all her classes,
get into a private high school.
Then she’ll go on to an Ivy league college.
How can she not be happy with her life?
Doesn’t it sound perfectly perfect?
What more could she want?
Maybe she just wants to be heard
but no one will listen
because all they can think is
what more could she want
than this life?
Maybe she wants to go to high school with her friends.
Maybe she wanted to go to that party yesterday,
but couldn’t because she was studying
because if she gets below a perfect score on the test
she won’t be the best
and that strays off the path of this life laid out for her.
Oh no no no now we can’t have that.
So maybe it would be easier to just sit in a room
with baren walls, closed windows, and concrete floors
where no one can get in.
A room that was never there until
she came along.
A room she built with her own two hands,
piece by piece,
bit by bit,
until she put the last nail in the last window,
making it impossible to get in,
but not impossible to get out.
She could just leave.
She could kick down the door.
She could unnail the boards.
She could be free.
She could escape.
She could finally burn down
this House of Hate.
But out there,
there are people,
there are people with expectations that want things done
the same people who are forcing her to be number one.
But she doesn’t want to be number one all the time.
She just wants to have fun,
to be free, to have a say
in how her life is layed out
because you think it’s a neat straight line
but she would prefer
it to be a scribble all over the page.
She just wants to have a say.
But no one will listen to her voice,
it is overpowered by too many people
saying no,
too many people
saying this is what you do.
But her voice is never heard,
so why keep wasting her breath?
Her room is never found,
and no knocking ever comes.
No one ever starts banging on the door.
No one screams at her to let them in.
No one comes to save her.
And she’s gotten used to life being this way.
So instead of wasting her tears,
on “friends” who don’t seem to care,
she just sits in this room
staring at the wall
hoping
wishing
praying
that there was
none of her
at all.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC