I’ve run out of reasons not to hate myself

5 years ago I tried to **** myself but I couldn’t

tie the right knot. I tied it around my neck

but it just kept slipping, like me, slipping like walking

on ice, like my tongue when I talk to you, slipping.

What a slap to my face huh? A suicidal kid

who wasn’t even smart enough to tie the noose

he was going to use to **** himself because

he felt he wasn’t enough, ever.

Failure: My story’s recurring theme

Migraines: My annoying next door neighbor

Migraine medication: His daughters (All 15 of them)

I kept making myself “better”

Stopped the cuts

No more pills

clean

But it came back

I tried to stop it, I really did

Happy. My motto memorized. Happy

Happy. Rehearsed and repeated. Happy

Well, 5 days ago I tried to **** myself. I wasn’t enough

Happy wasn’t enough.

This time I googled how to make a proper noose

wasn’t even that hard, really.

It was ready, I was ready, notes for everyone

tucked away in individual envelopes in my bag

and clear and concise instruction on where, when and to who

they should be sent to.

I would have died. Wrists, thighs, hearts, and eyes

carved

Deaf, I became deaf. From all the screaming inside telling me

to do it and the whispers outside not to.

5 days ago I had my head in a noose, ready to jump

Then you called asking how I was

“Bad, really bad.” I said

“Tell me about it” you replied

5 days ago I was about to **** myself but you stopped me

But you won’t always.