When you are [suicidal],
Every single item runs through your mind.
Of course first its the medicine cabinet.
And then the guns.
Before the knives, razors better yet.

Rope will cross your mind,
But then again so will a cotton tie.
The steering wheel has always been in the back of your mind.
After you live alongside it, you begin to imagine more.

Today I notice:
A small sewing needle laying idle on my desk.
I notice the way it is thin and easy to swallow,
Just like my morning goulash of meds.
I notice how it's small but not small enough.
Not small enough to not puncture my organs.
Small enough to swallow.
Large enough to not come back.
And when this thought crosses my mind I imagine:

I begin to choke,
It hurts just like my entire life has stung.
It sears me from the inside out.
I know it's the end.

Blood spurts up and out my throat.
My eyes burn with the last tears I'll ever cry.

I see myself gripping my throat, instinct kicking in.
I imagine the feel of the needle making its way down,
Slicing me alive.
Or Maybe getting stuck.
For my choke and die.
I see the life drain from my own eyes.

And instead of distress when this came across my mind.
I felt at ease.

Should sting.
They should make you want to crawl out of your flesh prison.
They shouldn't be flowery.
Nor sweet, simple, and easy to read.

My words bite at your arm,
Like the truth of society burns your eyes.
These words are the venom in my bones.
T H I S  I S  M Y  P A I N
Feel it as deep as I was forced to at 8.

This is the truth.
My words may never be full of light.
But the world holds a flashlight,
And pretends that they can see.
I may be 'deranged'
But  a  t    l e  a s  t
I
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