its gotten to the point where ive been hurt so many times

i can say

im used to it

but out of all the people

who could have beaten me down

                                    ripped me apart

                                            made me feel less than worthy

why did it have to be
                                    you?

Did you notice I didn't talk?
Did you notice I didn't smile?
Did you notice my dull eyes?
Did you notice my distant stares?
Did you notice my silent cries?
Did you notice my earphones always there?
Did you notice my work degrade?
Did you notice I started to fade away?
Did you notice I needed you?
Did you even care?
I was depressed and you didn't notice.

As Plath once said, "dying is an art"
and just like her it is something I'm good at by heart.
You see, I've died not once or twice but fifteen times,
always by my own hand; sometimes by rope and sometimes
by pills stocked up to the max - always dying
and also always, to my own misfortune, surviving.