we write when we're at our weakest
we write when we've been cut open
we write when we're bleeding
we write when we're dying inside
Not all those who write are sad,
but all sad people write.
You may not agree with this, but generally, it is true.
Why does everything make me sad...
Good things make me sad...
Seeing people happy makes me ache
Everywhere I’m in pain
Because I really don’t feel okay
And I know people are figuring things out
They’re finding reasons to be alive
And every time I see them
Enjoying being alive
I am reminded
That I don't want to be
8th grade, thirteen years old.
Has two close friends with depression
and can think of another seven in the grade who also do.
Knows three people who have attempted suicide,
five who have slit their wrists,
a girl who had such a bad panic attack
she almost died,
three people who have starved themselves.
Only knows these few struggles of a few people.
Knows there are probably countless more
who have to battle their own inner demons
on a daily basis.
Thanks God everyday
that she doesn’t know what these demons look like
and hopes she never has to.
Wishes she could just help take away her friends pain
but can’t because she doesn’t
have the slightest idea what it feels like
but she wishes she oh so wishes
that she could somehow
convince everyone that they matter
because they do
they all do.
She believes any person anywhere can and will
bring value to the world when given a chance
if only we could make them see that.
No one deserves to die!
8th grade, thirteen years old.
There was a time when I called you friend.
There was a time when every secret
that I kept locked up inside me
was unlocked in order to be told to you.
There was a time when we would stay up until midnight
talking about everything under the stars,
about life about love about sadness about joy.
All my thoughts were told to you.
It was nice.
It was really really really nice.
To know there was someone I could trust.
Someone who knew just by looking at my face
that I needed a hug.
Someone that I could share my darkest secrets with.
Someone who would be there for me
until the very end.
At least that was what I thought.
Until one day you didn’t text back.
One day you didn’t ask me how I was doing,
if I needed to talk.
One day you didn’t notice
the look in my eye,
the look of me about to crack into a million pieces.
You had always noticed that look before.
You grew distant.
Our friendship was falling apart
and while I tried desperately to pick up the pieces
and put it back together again
you watched it crumble.
Like a flower starting to wilt,
I tried to water it everyday
hoping it wouldn’t die.
I put it in the windowsill
where it would get the most light,
but water and sunlight can’t help a plant
that you seemed to be poinsing behind my back.
We stopped hanging out.
We exchanged a few words in the hallway
now and then
and maybe if you felt like it you would give me a call.
Nothing like the friendship we use to have.
Now all I’m left with is memories.
Memories of a time where I didn’t have to fight
my inner demons alone
because you always stood by my side
with a sword and shield
not letting any of them get to me.
Now I just stand on trembling legs
telling the monsters I’m not scared of them
but I am so so scared.
I miss you.
I know you might not feel the same
but that does not make what I feel any less real
and I hate that I feel this way I really do.
I wish I could just erase you from my mind
because you can’t miss
something you never had.
But it doesn’t work that way does it?
You told me our friendship could last.
And I believed you.
How stupid, stupid I was.