"time heals all wounds"
Oh how wrong I find that.
Sure, the mind may bury the wounds, cover them in scar tissue,
lessen the pain,
but never heal.
Sometimes you're the one that ends up getting buried.
Each secret, every guilt ridden action acting like shackles,
causing the wrists to go raw,
every conscience thought acting like the worst witness, accuser.
Nobody wants to feel like this.
Nobody should have to.
Nobody wants to live like this.
Nobody should have to.
So why does my mind
plague me with thoughts of
self mutilation mixed in with memories
whips, chains, belts, coat hangars, heated metal, wooden spoons,
frying pans, baseball bats, tools not meant for this so called "discipline".
I can't distinguish what actual anguish I truly experienced,
everything feeling so vivid,
so real.
While the physical scars, abrasions,
evidence
of what actually happened has healed, faded, washed away.
Every broken bone, torn muscle, bruised bit of flesh has mended,
even the severest of them, through the help of physical therapy.
But no conditioning can help you outrun
what you have firmly planted between your ears.
Trust me, I know what its like
to not be able to trust your own mind.
Long before I take my last breath, heart flatlines,
whether it be a bullet piercing my skull,
razor blades carving up and down my forearms,
or sleeping pills that permanently take effect,
but believe me that a sad soul will **** a man,
long before a gun is loaded, knife sharpened, bottle filled.

Don't think of me as some depressed statistic,
or do, if that comforts you,
if you can't understand how for every shade of blue, green you had,
my life has been dominated by grey.
I'm not complaining, its just how things are and have always been.
Its my life, where yellows, oranges, purples just don't seem to have that
POP. As if everything is faded, dulled down.
Where happiness isn't achieved by just being,
but every smile a constant internal struggle,
consciously having to fight, struggle, claw at the outposts in my mind,
just to have a remote chance.
If you don't, the infectious grey seeps into everything, filtering through.
With nothing seeming to provide joy
the little things have an added negative spin,
while the big things serve as reminders as to what it was like
to feel all the bright, fun colors, the carefree optimistic feel of hope,
only replaced by a severe lack of ambition or desire to do anything.
I'm not asking anyone for a hand out, or attention, or even someone's pity
as I've been accused of.
Instead, I'm just trying to help people understand the hardest question of why.
Why I do the things I do.
Why I say the things I say.
Why I act the way I act.
Because my rainbow consists of only a single, monotone, joyless color.

There's only been one person I have ever had that I truly trusted,
could look to for advice and know that what he said was true.
My uncle, who was more of a dad to me than my so-called father,
a monster, pure embodiment of evil. A testament showing that evil does not come from these supernatural interpretations, but of the people that share our beds, eat at our tables, etc. That's a tangent for another day. Instead, I want to honor my uncle's memory here by posting his life objective. My uncle passed away a little under four and a half years ago, and to say I've lost quite a bit of direction would be an understatement. Now, re-reading the last thing he ever wrote brings me a little peace of mind when I'm feeling down, but I think it's time to broaden the potential of this passage and see if anyone else can get anything out of it. So, without further delay, here's what he decided to be his life goal:

**I wish for a little peace of mind. I want to feel like I have done my part, or at least tried. I want a good night's rest. I feel that there is much more to this life than the earth. I feel that I have more to offer this life than to the mundane. So my objective would be that offering I give to leave the grind, to give my all in whatever endeavor that best suits what I have to offer this world. So I intend to put my best foot forward, head down feet churning shoulders square, I mean to smash into destiny, the end result will either be victory or defeat. If it is defeat then I'll pick myself up and try again till I exhaust exhaustion, until death embraces me. Then all that will be remembered will be that which is attached to my bones, the label they earned from the integrity of my life. That is my objective.

I've written
countless drafts.
Crumpled up the paper,
thrown it away,
only to write a slightly different version the next day.

This has gone on for years.
Once you start the debate of suicide,
it never really goes away.
Everything gets weighed in,
good and bad.

"Oh you failed your math test?
might as well give up everything.
You missed the shot and your team lost because of you?
why are you still here?
You donated blood? What are you overcompensating for?"

Its not like I want to die,
that's not why I keep writing these and have tried once,
no, I just want to stop the pain.
Enduring intolerable existence
just to spare everyone around some questions to ponder.

Only part of me wants the freedom the act grants,
release from everything,
a life ruined a long time ago.
And that's the part that I wish I could
****.

The part that makes me question
every knife,
crosswalk,
rooftop,
as a rehearsal for tragedy.

If the news tells you
someone died from sleeping pills,
you must know that isn't true.
They died of grief,
a slow bleed from the very soul.

Killing myself is an inaccurate term,
I think its more accurate to say that we are just
worn down by the long, hard struggle to stay alive.
Suicide is thought of as just giving up, with no fight.
Couldn't be further from the truth.

To live is the most painful thing
I could ever imagine.
I'm weak, and unwilling to fight anymore.  
I may not be able to tear out a single page of my story,
but I can throw the entire book into a fire.

*I want to tell you everything, but I can't.
Because you'd have that look on your face.
I just want to be able to pretend I'm normal, even though I'm not.
I don't want to see you hurt by my pain,
I don't want to hurt you, or anyone else.
So, please, forget about me.
Just try and find a better friend than I have ever been.

Feeling great,
effortlessly moving
without a care in the world.
Only to fly too close to the sun,
burn up,
come crashing down,
back to earth
and the painful reality.

As I lay,
scorched and charred
beyond all recognition
I only pray
that the memories left behind
aren't as disfigured or damaged
as much as my body and soul have become.

Day by day
I lock away more and more
of myself.
Bury it.
Leave no trace.
If only to protect what I can.
While everyone else
can flourish,
rise from their ashes,
I shovel away
digging as deep as possible.
I'm just busy
trying to survive.

As I turn down
glass after glass
solo cup after solo cup
frustration and anger
fill their eyes.

As I sit out
games of
flip it
and pong
tension rises.

Judgements impaired,
ideals forcefully pressed,
bottles broken,
vaguely reminiscent of
the past.

Where instead of bottles
it was bones.
Instead of tension,
it was animosity,
maybe even hatred.

Here I stand,
at the crossroad
of yesterday and the future.
I can't take a sip.
I can't be like him.

He who tore flesh from bone,
savagely kept going until
badly bruised, even unconscious.
Fortunately,
the physical pain fades.

If only every other nightmare,
ruined memory,
psychological damage,
would too.
I haven't been as fortunate with that.