I’m not going to take a razor,
and slide it down my own arm.
I won’t go grab a knife, or scissors, or a flame,
and cause myself physical harm.
I won’t be falling with a noose around my neck,
begging for it to take my last breath.
Nor swallowing a bunch of pills, in hopes.
No, I won’t be causing my own death.
But if I saw a car, coming right at me,
while I still had a chance to get away,
I can’t say, with certain certainty,
“Oh, I’ll step out of its way.”
And if an older, stronger, bigger man,
was stopping me on the street,
knife at my throat, gun at my head,
I don’t know if I’d have it in me to scream.
I write poetry to escape,
though I’ve got a smile as I do.
No one knows the kind of thoughts I’ve had,
no ones ever honestly asked me “how are you.”
I feel like I’ve been begging for help,
sending out pleas, screaming inside.
But no one has the vaguest idea I’m in pain-
there’s just too much that I hide.
But hey. I’m not going to take a razor,
or a flame or a noose or some pills.
You don’t need to worry about me,
It’s not going to be me who gets me killed.