Let’s all go back to before we were broken.
Before love turned to lie,
Before lie turned to die,
Before die turned to live.
I would rather die today than live another day of this death.
My voodoo doll is being held by a God I don’t believe in and he’s picking at my mind with a needle,
Injecting my brain with a chemical imbalance that makes it so it doesn’t matter whether my eyes are open or closed,
I always see the same darkness.
I didn't really begin to notice until I began to notice that people were beginning to notice.
This is truly,
the most stubborn nothing I have ever not felt.
In seventh grade,
my best friend fell asleep to lullabies sung by a blade that she never seemed to remember the next morning.
She didn't talk about her feelings much,
but when she did she said it seemed like I was the only one who remembered the next morning,
and I did.
After I got her help,
she called me her savior.
I never really understood how much that meant.
I told myself I would never feel pain the way she did.
In grade eight, my other best friend's sister swallowed a bottle of pills,
searching for an end.
After she returned from two weeks in a mental institution,
telling the story of a girl who called out names without faces,
the story of a little boy who had voices inside his head telling him to **** his own parents,
I tried my hardest not to think she was just as crazy as he.
I told myself I would never feel pain the way she did.
You see,
in the end,
everyone turns out to be the person they'd sworn they'd never become.
Because now,
the hiss of silver splitting skin whispers in my ear and sings me to sleep.
I've held bottles of pills in my hands,
searching for an end.
I don't know what to do,
because the end everyone seems to want me to have is monumental,
and very far away.
What do you do,
when your misery has become a reflection on a window?
Transparent, but clear,
if you only try hard enough to see it.
No one has tried hard enough to see it.
I've mastered the art of forgetting.
On the good days,
I can't seem to remember what happiness feels like the next morning,
and I start to feel pain the way they did.
I've started,
thinking outside of the lines my life is written in,
so I know what the dead know.
People lie to themselves about death.
Don't truly accept that it's going to happen until it happens.
And yet, they believe in a white light and a golden gate.
Let me tell you,
death is not beautiful.
If it truly was,
you would want to die just as much as me.