When I talk about suicide it isn't for attention,
this is not my exit sign, no easy way out.
This is me seeing sky for the first time after minutes of drowning,
this is survival mode kicking in,
a need to taste the air again with water filled lungs.
A feeling so familiar to me,
it is the closest thing I know to home.

I wear trinkets around my neck,
memories of all the reasons I cannot leave yet.
My necklace holds the smile of a young boy who knows exactly what I need and how to get a laugh from my lips without words.
On the same chain lies the spirit of a girl who with heartfelt conversation and the conviction of God reminded me what life tasted like.
I keep these things close to my heart,
praying to always be reminded of what good life holds.

But so easily do we forget, and how often we are forgotten.
Some days I worry that my reasons could never be enough.

I'm staring down the barrel of a loaded gun,
and the weapon strangely looks a lot like my two hands.
There is sunshine on one shoulder, a cyanide pill strapped to the other.
Now I don't know which one sounds more beautiful,
but a blind decision could make it my last.