The last time I tried to **** myself
they took away all my blades and pills and knives
hidden in boxes behind the oven.
They thought they were helping
They weren't.
The Cuts.. they help.
they let out the pain, anxiety, uncertainty, loneliness
anger, frustration, feelings of worthlessness
that found its way into my blood.
Let out in little, manageable incisions that kept me
sane.
The pills... they numbed my head.
Kept at bay all the worst thoughts
my mind came up with.
I remember my mom once told me
"Martin, Ideas a powerful thing
they can either hurt or help"
Well, mom never told me my own ideas
they could hurt ME.
because these wounds in my head
I'm pretty sure they're self-inflicted.
words weaponized and sent barreling down at me
Flowing, like fire. Facing myself
in the warfare of my own thought.
Knowing my own weaknesses and vulnerabilities
With precise strikes I tear apart my sanity
So yeah. Taking my pills.
Did not help.
Instead, they left me here.
Alone, to deal with myself,
unarmed with nothing but a pen and some promises that everything-
will be-al-right
They won't.
Now I'm here
Holding the last blade I have.
Found taped on a page of this journal.
A page entitled "My Fail-safe"
and the cold steel
if brings back the comfort of fond memories
and the smell of metal and blood indistinguishable.
I've held in so much since last I held this blade
and now, I can finally let it out
for
the last time