If I was an animal,
I would be a cat.

Not because they're agile and fast.
But because we hide our pain.
We prefer to crawl into a small spot,
And quietly hurt, than to cry out for help.

Have you ever grieved a relationship...
One that hasn't actually happened?

One you've hoped for,
Dreamed for even.

To grieve my person
While they stand beside me holding my hand...
Is a wild experience.

I wanted everything.
With you.
I want none without.

And though you want me,
It's not the same.
It's not enough.

I ask for something...
You say you'll give it.
Then you forget.

I ask for something...
You say you'll give it.
Then you give it to the person next to me.

I want everything with you.
You want everything.

How do I grieve what I can't have?
Never had with you,
Yet dreamed in my head...

How do I accept your love,
The way you want to give it to me?
When I want so much more?

I guess I just have to let that dream go...

I wish it was easier to love me.
But is it so hard to give what I give?

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
C          A        N
S        e       e

My body
If I could control it,
If I was fully aware,
I would stop my heart from pumping.

Free my soul.
From this flesh prison
That keeps me down.

Whom hasn't been loved before.
Who hasn't learned to accept it.
Doesn't believe himself worthy of it.

I am excited.
To see the softness in your eyes,
As you realize just how much I love you.
I am honored to love you how you never knew you needed.

It surprises me,
How often I'm alone.
How often I feel lonely.

Even with two partners.
Life won't just let me exist with them
He's on first shift.
I'm on second shift.
I get to tuck him into bed after work.
They work third shift.
He gets off work, I'm working.
They wake up and he's home.
They get the evening.
I get home and they're working.
I tuck him into bed for work in the morning.
And again I am alone.

They sleep during the day,
He works.
I am alone.
I'm tired of being alone too.

Definition: without companions; solitary, or sad because one has no friends or company.
Example: this author

I've never felt alive
I've always just been surviving.
It's harder than yesterday now.
I wish to feel like the living.

I'm too exhausted.
Too exhausted to have hobbies.
To have interests.
To watch TV.
To care.

If I'm not on autopilot, I am a mess.
I'm breaking down, unable to move.
Unable to care about those I love.
That can't be living either.
So I just survive.
Barely.
It's hard today.

I hope to be alive one day
But hope is fleeting and deceiving.

This longing that is constant is not what I expected.
The weight of existing is a shotgun pointed at my temple.
Sometimes breathing and eating require too much.
The anxiety and detrimental stress consume me.

Return To Sender.
Please...

Crashing against the rocks.
                Washing away the sand.
                             Weathering it to glass.

Depression is like waves.
                  And I am already glass.

I've imagined it a thousand times.
Hoped for it more.
Sometimes I lay awake at night,
Coming up with different scenarios.
I imagined myself having a stroke.
I even imagined overdosing.
And then compulsively looked up if I could do such a thing on my medication.
I guess I'll be here a while.