I'm a simple girl,
I only want few ugly things out of
this equally ugly world.
Hot showers on summer afternoons,
frozen desserts on stormy evenings,
old, sad rock songs on christmas day
and scribbling depressing poems on my birthday.

I like the comfort that I get from sitting right beside the door of a moving vehicle,
that the possibility of it sliding open
while I'm leaning on it feels like
my favorite warm blanket from childhood.
The idea that I could be sitting upright one minute
then the next, my face will be parallel to my knees and ankle
feels like my cheat cigarette stick after months of "quitting", it's that good.

And I love thinking about the probability in the fact that I might not wake up after tonight,
that this might be my last poem written.
That if I pop a bit too many pills,
I can just end all of these.
It's like I got magic under my sleeves.
But who the hell needs magic?
Instead, I wish I had a beautifully tight noose to put me to eternal sleep

I keep tearing open my own old wounds.
Maybe I like the pain.
Maybe we both do.
I can't stop trying to convince myself that I'll never be good enough.
I won't give myself a break.
He won't save me from my own hell.
He has his own to deal with.
To put me through.
I feel less and less important by the day.
I'm the pretty petal on the breeze.
Worth a moment's pause to wonder over,
but not worth more than the passing thought.
No matter how I try,
I've never felt important.
There's always something better.
The pain reminds me not to let my head float away in the clouds.
Happiness is for someone else.
Someone more deserving than me.
So don't get used to the feeling.
It was never supposed to be mine anyway.
That's not my place in life.
I'm the stepping stone from despair to daylight,
but never to be taken on the journey.
I'm worth only leaving behind in search of better things.
Better love, better people.
I'm the shadow that reminds you of the light awaiting.
Go in search of the brightness,
the sunshine,
the air worth breathing.
I am only quiet reflection.
I live in the in between place.
I think this may be where all of us, who should not have lived,
go to dwell.
No real purpose.
I was never supposed to be here anyway.
And so I fade.
With time, they all forget.
I was not meant to be remembered, anyway.
Certainly not to be kept.

I walk through these hallways.
So silent. Just trying to get to class.
I move at a quick pace because I can't stand
To see everyone look away as I pass.
I sit down alone in the back of the room.
I pay attention to the teacher,
But sometimes I zone out.
Sometimes I think about boys, or hair,
Or all of the people who refuse to care.
The sub gives us busy work, so I look around the room.
I see everyone chatting and having
Their pointless teenage conversations.
I do my work silently until the bell rings. It's too easy.
I move from class to class,
Just hoping the time will pass
A little faster than it usually does.
Nothing really matters anymore, really.
My friends don't talk to me.
My ex boyfriend just looks at me funny.
I obsess over my weight; my hair; my skin.
I am not used to this. I am not used to changing all the time.
I used to be outgoing; magnificent; popular; funny.
Now I'm just awkward; quiet; alone; unhappy.
High school makes me miserable,
but at least I have good grades.

You think no one would care if you died? no one would notice. well you’re wrong. i would. and so would so many other people.

Okay listen here, even though this won’t matter in a week or even tomorrow I just want you to know that:

You are worth so much more than you think.

You were placed on this earth for a reason, everyone has a reason to live no matter how small it may be. There is always hope, there is always help. There is always something better to do than **** yourself.

If you died tonight by taking your own life you would affect so many. No don’t just say “Pfft, yeah right” because someone will.

What if tomorrow your best friend wakes up and you’re not there? Do you know how devastated they will be. They will blame themselves. What if they had talked to you a little longer that night? or finally told you that they love you? A million questions will race though their mind. They will blame themselves for therest of their life.

Your family don’t care either? They do. What happens when they find your body? They will shake your trying the wake you, but you never will. They will cry out for you, tell you to come back. They need you here, without you here? They are missing half of themselves. Their own blood dead. They also will blame it on themselves. What if I woke up earlier to get them out of bed? What did I do wrong as a parent? Why couldn’t they talk to me? The same million questions pestering them for the rest of their lives. How about burying their child before them, that is one of the worst things, out living your own child.

You probably think killing yourself is easy? It’s not. Bleeding out takes hours and it’s excruciating painful. Overdosing, if you don’t do it right you could mess up your organs forever. All the ways of killing yourself have a chance that they will not work and if they don’t you will live with those scars forever.

You’re probably going to blow this off and forget about it but can you at least remember that you are beautiful and you are worth so much more. please don’t take your life tonight or tomorrow or next week because if you survive this monster that eats away your mind everyday you will be able to tell your children and their children that..

**You survived.

Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.  

But what they don’t know is that depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,

it’s feeling the blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of  “Oh, look how beautiful the red is” (they always say red is my color).

Depression is lying on your bed for hours on end, salt tracks lining your face like the scars on your ankles, staring at your ceiling tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.

Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.

Depression is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the pain like a gift because you deserve it.

Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking.

Depression is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear, and then telling you to your face that you have no right to cry, as if sadness is a privilege and you’re so pathetic that you don’t deserve it.

Depression is shutting yourself up in your room and hearing your family laughing downstairs because you feel like you can’t be a part of them and learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love

Depression is wanting to take love and your heart and break them into tiny little pieces and throw them into waves, to throw them away

Depression is a foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet, is you when you haven’t broken life in, is seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with smiles reaching their eyes when yours can’t.

Depression is wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”

Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.

Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway and when you close the door out of fear it keeps pounding, possessive, ******, and when you open the door out of anger you shout, “I’M SCARED” to thin air but your voice comes out as a whisper.