i don’t want to be thirty
and wasting brainpower on
not
hurting myself
i don’t want to be thirty at all
because for three years
i’ve thought that sixteen was the cutoff line
maybe college
but surely, someday,
i’d find it in me to **** myself
but one more year becomes two,
and i don’t even remember
any of the last few months
except crying
and writing poems to make myself feel better
and then not
feeling better
i don’t want to be spending thirty minutes in the shower anymore
digging my nails into my skin
teetering on the edge of picking up a knife,
feeling jealous of fourteen year old me
who got the chance to break my skin
or one month ago me
who was selfish enough to keep cutting her hip
even though she said she'd stop
but to present me
who hasn't drawn blood since then
the milestone
doesn't even feel like one
because this is the worst i've ever felt
and i don’t want to be this volatile,
that talking to someone for five minutes keeps me floating
and that not talking
to one person
will sink me;
this is not life,
and it is killing me
that all i do is not **** myself,
and i am tired of having each sentence start with suicide
bone tired, chillingly casual suicide
because nothing stops it
i’m going to **** myself, aren’t i?
i don’t know where my threshold is
and when i’m going to reach it
but i am barely scraping by
through days that should be a breeze
but what selfish piece of **** does that?
cuts herself and then promises people who love her that she'll stop
then promising herself to die because maybe they don't love her
me, i guess
i am just
so miserable
and sometimes i don’t care that my parents would be permanently broken
or my friends scarred;
maybe when i’m eighteen
and just a little more alone
maybe when i’m eighteen
i’ll finally **** myself
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 2:47 PM UTC
i don’t want to be thirty
and wasting brainpower on
not
hurting myself
i don’t want to be thirty at all
because for three years
i’ve thought that sixteen was the cutoff line
maybe college
but surely, someday,
i’d find it in me to **** myself
but one more year becomes two,
and i don’t even remember
any of the last few months
except crying
and writing poems to make myself feel better
and then not
feeling better
i don’t want to be spending thirty minutes in the shower anymore
digging my nails into my skin
teetering on the edge of picking up a knife,
feeling jealous of fourteen year old me
who got the chance to break my skin
or one month ago me
who was selfish enough to keep cutting her hip
even though she said she'd stop
but to present me
who hasn't drawn blood since then
the milestone
doesn't even feel like one
because this is the worst i've ever felt
and i don’t want to be this volatile,
that talking to someone for five minutes keeps me floating
and that not talking
to one person
will sink me;
this is not life,
and it is killing me
that all i do is not **** myself,
and i am tired of having each sentence start with suicide
bone tired, chillingly casual suicide
because nothing stops it
i’m going to **** myself, aren’t i?
i don’t know where my threshold is
and when i’m going to reach it
but i am barely scraping by
through days that should be a breeze
but what selfish piece of **** does that?
cuts herself and then promises people who love her that she'll stop
then promising herself to die because maybe they don't love her
me, i guess
i am just
so miserable
and sometimes i don’t care that my parents would be permanently broken
or my friends scarred;
maybe when i’m eighteen
and just a little more alone
maybe when i’m eighteen
i’ll finally **** myself