Imagine a little child
Wandering through the streets all alone,
With nothing but a tiny backpack
And a toy in their hand.

No one stops to ask if they're okay,
No one wants to look at them,
Most people don't even aknowledge them.

And they only care
When the child gets hit by a car,
Dissapears from existence.
To never be seen again.

Why should i stay,
When everyone i love leaves anyway?
When they become a name,
Something "we don't talk about".
Why do you expect me to not do the same?

Slicibg through like a knife,
Filling you with invisible wounds
As you quietly bleed out.

L
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                                        M                             E
  


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                                                      N
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This isn't a poem but a story i really needed to get out there. If it gets taken down, i don't mind, it's not a poem after all. It would be nice if you read it tho.

TW: suicide, self harm, abuse, ****** assault (this is my first time putting a trigger warning on something here)

My mom met her current boyfriend when i was 10. During the 4 years i lived there i was abused physically, emotionally, medically (idk if it counts, basically i didn't get the medical care i needed) and financially, i'm a minor so i kinda depended on his and my mother's money. He committed ****** assault against my mother multiple times, leading to her having a child with him and being pregnant again. Me, my brother (11 years old) and my mother were all told we have stockholm syndrome. I was later diagnosed with autism and some other stuff. In 2021 my school called the cps, they didn't do anything. A few months ago i was told that what we had to do there was slavery. I ran away from home in May of 2024 and stayed with my grandma ever since. In January, 2025, he kidnapped me and i stayed there for the next 2 months. He did a lot of worse things as well but that's not the point.

On valentines day, 2025, i woke up to my brother telling me to open the windows in his room, because there was smoke in his room from making the fire (they heat the house with wood and coal) so i did. A day earlier i was cleaning the house and my stepfather told me to lean the wet mop against the furnance (i have no idea what it's called). It obviously melted down. My stepfather yelled at me and my mother and told me to buy a new one with money i didn't have. I went with my mom and my brother to check up on the horses, around 30 minutes away and we went to a shop to buy a new mop. My mom paid for it and told my stepfather i bought it. When we arrived at home, he yelled "where is this *****" (me) and threw the old mop at me. He then told me to go chop wood. It was 1pm. I went to chop wood and at 7pm i was let out of the basement. My mother took my backpack and things from my shelf and closet, threw them on the floor and said it was a mess (i did have a bit of a mess in my backpack though). She then told me to give her my phone. I would normally obey, recognizing my mistake but the last time my phone got taken away (August 31st, 2022) i never got it back and later discovered it was smashed with a hammer. I gave her the phone eventually, she said it won't be broken. A minute later i heard my stepfather yell at her to let him smash the phone. He threw a barely working laptop (which he stole from me) and my phone on the table and told me to download my school stuff on there. When i began to open the laptop he grabbed me by the back of my hoodie and threw me on the ground, i was scared and begged him to stop (he was choking me like this), my mom just watched and didn't do anything about it. He yelled at me to clean up the mess so i did. He yelled more. Now, i was a 14 years old autistic trans boy, had an 11 years old brother in the house, a 2 years old brother, and a pregnant mother with cancer, along with a very violent man who began smashing everything he saw. I knew i would get in trouble but i grabbed my phone and ran out of the house, at first they tried to stop me but later they didn't. I ran out of the house around 8pm, with my crocs on, in snow, in a thin hoodie and ***** sweatpants. I ran to the shop which was like 1500 meters away, it took me around 3-4 minutes and i noticed i wasn't tired at all, nor cold. I hid in the bushes in a parking lot and called the police, explaining the situation. They told me to go back to the house so they know the call isn't a prank. I tried to get there by a different route, but my stepfather found me, he forcefully threw me into his car and later into the house. He smashed my phone with a hammer and told me to hand wash some ***** clothes he found. The police arrived a while after. I ran there again, they tried to stop me, the door was locked. I went to my room which was on the first floor and jumped out of the window. The police entered the house and my stepfather started saying how mentally ill i am, that i made it all up and things like that. The police took pictures of my room (it was like 2 x 2 meters, with nothing but a mattress inside). They believed my stepfather as always, but one of the adults there told them that she needs to check for any signs of physical abuse (it was a lady and i'm so grateful she was there). She asked me to roll up my sleeves and saw my self harm. They told my stepfather they have to take me to a psychiatrist right now and maybe keep me there for longer, he said it's good and was needed because of how delusional i was. Then he left upstairs and they asked me a few questions (like if i tried to **** myself and stuff like that and how i tried to do it). I said i did and told them how, since anythign was better than staying at that house. The lady went to the room upstairs with me and made sure i can change in peace (my clothes were ***** and torn). Then we went downstairs, my stepfather kept making those comments about me, the lady made sure i stayed right next to her because i was having one of those silent anxiety attacks or whatever they're called. I got taken to a mental hospital that day, stayed there for a while and i'm currently living at my grandma's house, i'm also in therapy. The second day i was in the mental hospital my mother brought me things like spare clothes, a notebook which i still have and a few books. She told me she wanted to die because of me and hugged me. I want to take my siblings in when i grow up but i have no idea if i'll be able to financially. I want to at least take the 11 years old in. Technically all of them are my step-siblings but i don't mind. Anyway, this is how i spent my valentines day this year, thank you so much for reading this.

What if
There are
Two Gods?
One false,
Popular,
And the true one,
Known by only few.

Have you ever wanted to escape to a place where no one can see you?
Maybe you tried imagining the place by yourself.
The innocent little dreams turned into maladaptive daydreaming.
And suddenly, you're sentenced to being mentally ill

The imaginary world begines to grow,
Consuming you more and more.
Soon, you can't see the difference between the real world and the one
You made up.

You slip into derealization
It drowns you while giving you short breaks for air
To let you stay alive
While still hurting

If you see this,
Maybe at least pay attention this time?

To the words and how they're written
If you even care.
Reader,
Enlighten me, what would change if i
Died?

So close,
Yet so far.
It cannot be defined,
Nor fully felt.
You're always trapped.

Too lazy to die
Too lazy to exist
Too lazy to cry
Too lazy to persist
Too lazy to stay
Too lazy to leave
Too lazy to pray
Too lazy to achieve
Too lazy to pretend
Too lazy to say the truth
Too lazy for the end
Too lazy for your youth
Too lazy to stop
Too lazy to lie
Too lazy to do your job
Too lazy to die

My fingers
Interlocking with yours.
For the last time,
You'll never know you won't see me again.
Ever.
I'll be gone.
F O R E V E R.

Yall i found my old notebook with some poems i wrote when i was like 12-13, should i post them here? Perhaps make a collection? Let me know what you think in the comments

You can't force it on yourself.
The words come by themselves,
In the most random moment,
To help you
Or doom you.
They have their own will.
A sudden wave of inspiration,
On a train, bus, school,
But when you want to write,
It tells you you're not ready.

everyone is already asleep
the pills seem to stare right into your soul
you grab the blade,
the cold edge hitting your skin
almost tenderly.
as the thick, dark liquid stains the sheets,
you open the bottle with your shaky hands.
and take them out
one by one.
it tells you to hurry up.
you quickly consume every single one,
before you could regret it.
you write a few notes, texts, explaining why you'll be gone,
possibly forever.
they don't have to know that though.
you can already feel the headache coming,
the regret slowly creeping in,
you pass out.
you wake up a few hours later,
confused,
the realization finally hits you.
you don't want to listen,
but the pill whispers:
"again."

You wake up.
Immediately, you check your phone.
The amount of things to do is unbearable,
But you have to get it done anyway.
Why?
You don't know.

You start doing the work by yourself,
No one there to help you yet.
As always.
You have to do everything alone.
Why?
You don't know.

You finish the work
And you feel empty.
You HAVE to do something, anything.
Why?
You don't know.

You're completely burnt out,
They ask you if you're okay.
You're not.
Why?
You don't know.

Abused
Belittled
Used
Scared
Exploited

Force my thoughts
And tell me what i think.
Shaping my mind
To your use and will.
To what you think is true,
Yet it isn't.

I crave it
Like a drug.
It pulls me through the words
As i type on the screen
Or notebook.
It's almost like attention-seeking
Yet i won't give up
Until i get enough.

Gaslight yourself.
Into thinking you're important,
Happy,
Normal.
That thin line of denial
Being the only thing keeping you alive.
They would miss you if you were gone, wouldn't they?

I know that i'm here,
What i do or say,
But i don't know how or why.

I see through my eyes,
But as a completely different person,
Often not controlling myself.
Almost like living on autopilot.

See through their souls
And the things they like,
Write like they want to read it.
The writing style that according to them
Shall be successful.
Make it more simple,
More complex,
Whatever they like,
Make it realistic,
Or dreamy,
Happy
Or sad.
Tell a story
They would tell themselves.

Do me a favor,
And pick up the gun,
Killing what used to be your son,
That's now a memory instead.

Do me a favor,
And pick up the knife,
Killing what used to be a life,
(be happy, he could take it on his own)

Do me a favor,
And give me the pills,
Every single one that kills
The mistake you made
When you were 21,
The 14 years old accident,
You wanted gone.

A soul broken into pieces,
And given an ability to write in return.
As "compensation".
To make people relate,
Getting the tiniest bit of happiness
From their work
While dying slowly.

All adults were once children
There are no exceptions
And that's what's truly heartbreaking
Villians are made, not born
At least not always

Every angsty drug dealer
Every teacher
Every depressed poet
Every grave

When you see a homeless person
Do you ever wonder what their life has been before?
They were just a child
With hope
Hope which died along with their innocence

I always dreamed
Of dying in a special way.
People worried,
Mother guilty for what she did,
The awkward school assembly about a dead student.
Someone trying to stop me from ending it all.

Yet now i sit in my room,
Reading the texts from earlier,
The pretty lies, saying it's "just a break".
A break i won't come back from.

I could never write those.
A type of art so sweet for the soul,
Yet so hard to master and understand.
A poem written by the heart,
The hand only being a
Tool for it to communicate.
Trying to explain
Something no one truly knows.