The last time I tried to **** myself

they took away all my blades and pills and knives

hidden in boxes behind the oven.

They thought they were helping

They weren't.

The Cuts.. they help.

they let out the pain, anxiety, uncertainty, loneliness

anger, frustration, feelings of worthlessness

that found its way into my blood.

Let out in little, manageable incisions that kept me

sane.

The pills... they numbed my head.

Kept at bay all the worst thoughts

my mind came up with.

I remember my mom once told me

"Martin, Ideas a powerful thing

they can either hurt or help"

Well, mom never told me my own ideas

they could hurt ME.

because these wounds in my head

I'm pretty sure they're self-inflicted.

words weaponized and sent barreling down at me

Flowing, like fire. Facing myself

in the warfare of my own thought.

Knowing my own weaknesses and vulnerabilities

With precise strikes I tear apart my sanity



So yeah. Taking my pills.

Did not help.



Instead, they left me here.

Alone, to deal with myself,

unarmed with nothing but a pen and some promises that everything-

will be-al-right



They won't.



Now I'm here

Holding the last blade I have.

Found taped on a page of this journal.

A page entitled "My Fail-safe"

and the cold steel

if brings back the comfort of fond memories

and the smell of metal and blood indistinguishable.

I've held in so much since last I held this blade

and now, I can finally let it out

for

the last time