These hands tell a story
A story of the unknown
Of a girl who tried to **** herself
Bury herself under a stone.

On the outside they appear thin,
Veiny and scarred.
A relic of the old days.
When times were very hard.

When restriction was the answer.
Ruled her thoughts and mind.
Shriveling away was the solution.
A disappearance of a kind.

Others just see thin hands
But for her memories burn from the past
The view of these emaciated hands
Remind her of how she almost couldn't last

Recovery on her fingertips
A war fought in her mind.
These hands are a painful reminder
Of the past she's trying to leave behind

Being suicidal
Doesn't mean you try to take your own life
Sometimes it means
Pushing others away
So you have less of a reason to live
And waking up Evey day
And just saying "**** it"
To everyone who walks your way
Sometimes it means
Eating less so you'll die of starvation
Or not wearing a jacket
So you'll get sick and die
Or not looking both ways
Before crossing the street
Because you don't care if you get hit by a car
Or cutting your wrist so you feel numb
Sometimes it means
Hiding every emotion
Deep down
Until you finally break
Scaring everyone away.

Hoping for a miracle yet fearing for the worst.

I keep writing "she" in my poems instead of "I" because I'm afraid of letting people know what's really going on inside my head, of knowing that I am the one who's been in so much pain for so long and not this "she" character everyone thinks I created. I don't tell anyone because then they will look deeper, and the deeper they'll look, the darker the images they'll see. Their curiosity will get them looking and wondering the thing I'm hiding behind the fake laughs. My insanity will be an interest of theirs and not me. I will simply be an interesting story to gossip about.

I honestly can't tell you when was the last time I laughed or even smiled (not even my favorite TV shows or favorite comedians can make me laugh). I only know about the long crying myself to sleep nights. The desperate continuous prayers. Laughing became forbidden, a sin that my mind is refusing to let me commit.

I've been running through this tunnel for so long looking for that light everyone keeps talking about. But the faster I run, the further I go, the longer the tunnel seems to get. I don't see a way out of here.

Sleeping used to be my temporary way out but even that, the sadness managed to take over it. It has taken over everything, became everything that I am. I've lost interest in everything and everyone. It's like I'm living in a nightmare and I know there is no better reality to wake up to. Do you know how that feels like? To be hopeless all the time even when you are not awake? To just exist and not live? To be in pain, to feel like you're slowly dying but there's nothing physically wrong with you? To feel like you are in this world alone because no one can see that you are suffering, no one hearing your cries for help, not your friends, not even your family? Do you know how hopeless feels like? I do. And it's killing every lasting bit of me. (And I don't know how much longer I can hold on)

If you look closely

You will see

The cracks and fault lines

That comprise me

From the outside, to the unattuned eye

I look like a normal vase,

For the glue is now dry.

Truth be told

I was smashed

Obliterated

Pieces essential to my core

Strewn haphazardly across the floor.

But thanks to those that saw me,

And a little internal conviction.

My pieces have been collected

My old form resurrected.

Thanks to a little glue

I appear to be almost brand new.

But don't be deceived

For what you perceive

Should not be completely believed.

For the vase is very fragile,

Not to be toyed with.

Not a player's game.

Please don't mishandle me,

And resurface days of misery.