He left.

Have you noticed,
That no one ever cares
About a bomb,
Till it explodes?

And when it does
People regret letting it live?

I have a knack
For putting babies to sleep
No one knows how
Or why

But I have a
Slight idea

I believe
That babies
Can hear my
Invisible tears
When no one else can

And they mistake that
For the sound of
Soothing rain
And that is why they sleep

I've become so custom to the side effects of depression, that they don't even seem abnormal anymore.
Never being able to sleep, but always being tired.
Oh that's no big deal, i'll just blame it on the coffee.
Not having enough energy to complete even the simplest of tasks.
But that's okay, you're just a lazy kid.
Constantly feeling like you're never good enough, that nobody even likes you or wants you around.
Oh stop it, don't be so clueless. That's just common teenage emotions.
Having to talk yourself into getting out of bed in the morning, because you would rather be dead than face the rest of the day.
Oh just get over yourself, you're being too dramatic, is what they'll say.
But little do they know, none of this is normal.
No one should have to wake up everyday, wishing that yesterday would've be their last.
How common do you think it is, to wish every single breath you take would be your last?
None of this is common, not in the slightest bit.
Can you please tell me why anyone would want to be like this?
People let you believe that depression is just a phase; something you can snap out of at any given day
But in reality, you can't; it is a life long disease that takes years to overcome.
And just like any disease, if it doesn't get treated, millions of people can, and will, die from it.

My scars don't look like
Anyone else's-
They're more careful,
Organized, precise and
Exact.
Not light, but
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough
Never deep enough.

People always ask why
I do such pretty patterns:
Because this is the only thing in life
That I can really control
Control
Control,

And I find it so beautiful-
Though, not so much tragic.

My scars are not chaotic like a
Car-wreck,
They are consistent like a
Coma-
Proof that I was awake
The whole time I was sleeping,
And I could feel everything
Even though I could tell no one.
No one.

That this
Unconscious obsessive compulsion
Demands order
Order
Order, it
Insists by instinct,
An intricate simplicity.

Still, I will 'ever envy
Those stitched gashes, once
Gushing
Gushing
Gushing with surrender and
Serenity...
Each raised and rough coarse collagen fiber
To form a white flag
Forever etched in flesh;
To tell the world
They, were a slave to freedom-

I am only a slave
To *myself.

You ask me
If I've considered suicide
Like I'm actually going to answer
Honestly

I mean,
What would I say?

Yeah that's all I think about
Please,
Put me on piles of medicine
So I can be crazy
As well as sad

But let me tell you
I most definitely
Have considered it

I've got the perfect tree picked out

It's got the perfect branch
For hanging yourself
There's a rope already attached

Or if you prefer,
It's easy to climb
You could always just jump

These are two options
But wait,
I've got more

There's a lake out back
It smells bad
But you could definitely still drown

Or better still,
There's a great knife in the kitchen
Really thin blade
But it's super sharp
For minimum pain
And maximum blood

Yet still,
There's more

I've got duct tape in the basement
You could make yourself suffocate

Of course,
You could use your pillow for that

There are the long ways

You could starve yourself
Sleep deprivation
Dehydration
Etcetera

So Mr.
"Psychological Doctor,"
I don't know...

Would you say I've thought about suicide?