The burning sun is awake
The hawks are awake
The demons are awake
The butterflies are awake. They are awake.
Rich, bright, darkness.
Confusion and dazed franticity.
Blinded and stumbling,
They are free.
I am suffocated.
And no one,
Not even those who watched me swallow the air,
Hear me gasp.
Samaritans 116 123
And what would happen if you
Looked into my eyes...
These glazed eyes,
A distorted tautologous window.
A facade of transparency.
The window is misted
It’s distorted with the touch of an October morning.
And I fear.
You will not see through this window,
Until it has shattered,
And all that remains is a soul,
That has been freed.
UK Samaritans Number- 116 123
If you’re ever sat alone in the darkest room of your mind remember that there’s a tealight on the windowsill.
Light that candle.
And that little flame of mine will glow so fiercely, emitting undeniable warmth and love,
that will dance around the room like a firefly.
You trapped me inside a cage
laughing at me as I struggled to escape
and we both knew
there was only one way out.
depression is often compared to falling down an endless hole.
it’s actually more like a hot air balloon,
launched by those who tell you to change.
change your looks, your personality
be yourself, they say
not like that, they say
you let them launch your balloon
believing they’re trying to help you fit in
and you watch them grow smaller
as you slowly rise into the atmosphere
until the oxygen grows as thin
as the strings holding together your sanity
and you panic and scratch at the balloon
trying to poke a hole, thinking only about descent,
and your fingertips begin to bleed
and your wrists are cut on the harsh nylon ropes
and you collect scars because you can’t collect your thoughts
and all you want to do is fall
so you jump
and as you’re falling, you feel good.
you feel free.
but as you plummet towards earth and you can see the ground you begin to regret and spread your arms, desperately flapping but it’s too
and you hit the floor with a sickening,
then you float back up to the sky that ended you
and you see
teachers, everybody who’s ever loved you and maybe even hated you feel the ripples of force as you hit the ground
and they scream and rush to your side
trying to help
trying to do what they tell themselves they would have done
if only they had known, if only you had told them
but you felt silly and invalidated and you didn’t want anybody to see
and you didn’t think they would have saved you
so you kept it in and stayed in your balloon until it was too much
the oxygen was running out
with your will to live
but those who are alive cry
tears falling as quickly as you did from the sky
hitting the ground with splashes nowhere near as loud as the crash
that cut your life short
running their fingers over the scars that you hid
the pain that you endured up there in the atmosphere, hidden among long sleeves and fluffy white clouds and fake smiles
and they wonder why they allowed
you to go up in the balloon in the first place
and they begin to blame
not each other, but themselves
and some launch balloons of their own
telling themselves that they’re just grieving,
just wanting to see what you did in your final moments
but their balloons spiral out of control and
they find themselves falling
just as you did
I wonder what it’s going to take for you to believe me.
Another sleepless night?
A deep cut. So deep the room screams scarlet.
Or maybe some pills, perhaps a few too many.
Maybe I should die, then you’d definitely notice.
And you’d swear I was always so happy, the life of the party.
But I was broken.
UK Samaritans Number: 116 123
This white plaster conceals the words never spoken.
The writing upon my arm.
Covering that white writing,
Keeping it safe.
Letters to myself.
That white writing that burns red,
Turning white at the hands of time.
Those words that were shallow, Meaningless,
But those deeper words...
Those early hours,
Eternally white writing
UK Samaritans number: 116 123
— The End —