Becoming numb on a suicidal Sunday,
Seeing your heart beat through your shirt,
Wishing it would stop,
Oh God, why won't it stop?

Feeling the burn of toxic coping mechanisms,
Intoxication becoming pure bliss,
The liquid surging down your throat,
As if it were washing your woes away.

Writing with solely a semicolon,
For everyone praises it as a solution,
A solution to suicide, self harm et cetera,
But a few lines on a screen are only skin deep.

Laying in bed waiting for tomorrow,
Terrified for tomorrow might not come,
For you might end it tonight when your mind is in twists,
When all is empty and glum.