annie try

annie try Sep 12

i was only 12 when i started wearing makeup, i was only 12 when i started sh, i was only 12 when i was sucidal,i was only 12 when i lost my dad,i was only 12 when i cared abt how i looked, i was only 12 when i changed, i was only 12 when i started vaping, i was only 12 when i lost myself, i was only 12 when i started straightening my hair, i was only 12 when i cared about my wieght, i was only 12 when i started wearing relvaeling clothes, i was only 12. 12 years old and wanting to end it. 12. i was 12 when i was gone.

annie try Sep 12

pretending

pretending it donst hurt, hurts more then the pain i feel. pretending to be someone im not, hurts more then being who i am. pretending to eat meals, hurts more then gaining weight. so why do i do it. im 12 and im changing myself, for no one. no one said i needed to change, i did. i was happy, now im not. now i pretend.

annie try Sep 12

im ok

im ok,
im ok but im not,
im ok in the way that im physacaly not hurt,
im ok in the way im passing my classes,
im ok in the way that im not harming myself,
im ok in the way im not suicidal,
im ok.

annie try Sep 12

darkness

As nightfall drowns the fading light,
My soul is trapped in endless night.
Every heartbeat aches with grief,
In a void where there’s no relief.
The darkness wraps around my mind,
Leaving every hope behind.
In this despair, deep and wide,
I am lost, with no place to hide.

annie try Sep 12

invisible pain

they don’t send ambulances for broken hearts, just broken bodies, when help doesn’t come we assume we must break our own bones, we must make the outside reflects how it feels within. Maybe then they’ll send help, maybe then they’ll listen, maybe then they’ll believe me when I say I hurt. Why cant the evidence of my ache be the way I feel, they don’t send ambulances for broken hearts, just broken bodies, when help doesn’t come we assume we must break our own bones, we must make the outside reflects how it feels within. Maybe then they’ll send help, maybe then they’ll listen, maybe then they’ll believe me when I say I hurt. Why cant the evidence of my ache be the way I feel, why does blood have to spill to make my pain look real. I don’t think the world should wait for me to puncture my skin, to worry about the trouble within. I wish we treated broken hearts like broken bones and sent ambulances for bleeding souls.

— The End —