love.
bullying.
heartbreak.
tragedy.
existence.
preference.
color­.
belief.
exhaustion.
insanity.
pain.
sadness.
illness.
worthiness.
stress.

all of these words tied together in one single, blood red soaked string.
even if we wanted to, we can't stop thinking about the past, present, and future.
we contemplate our lives as if the knife will deliver our freedom with wings.
but what we know without our power to **** ourselves, we are clearly unsure.

you see, many people have this stigma that killing ourselves is a selfish way to go.
that they believe we just need to "go for a walk" or "smile and don't be negative" as if it was our choice to become who we are.
many people believe we are just putting our masks, as if our illness was the stage and we were the characters putting on an overreacted show.
question is: don't you think we all would have done that if it was so easy to be happy and go far?

we put guns to our heads,
ropes around our necks,
slits on our wrists,
bags over our heads,
cement blocks on our legs,
pills down our throats,
and sidewalks crushing our fragile bodies,

because we are ******* tired.

we feel like we have no other choice of escape because, believe me, we have tried to protest against our sin.
our cries for help are seen as attention or fake until our bodies are found hung like limp and colorless ornaments on a burnt Christmas tree.
only in the dire times of our ends are we finally noticed and we fight, and fight until we begin to realize that it's the same vicious cycle of hell that we are thrown in.
our bodies being weathered and crushed and grounded into fine ashes that are later then caressed by the air as the preacher sets them free.

We feel so alone through the fights that are proclaimed to others that they will be there yet they vanish like cruel, cold-hearted magicians.
We are the rabbits in the dark pitiless top hat alone to swallow knives for everyone's entertainment as they stare fascinated yet afraid.
No one wants to help a helpless person for fear that their problems only result in a lack of cognition.
The responsibility of contemplated lives rest in the hands of those who want help, but at the end leave after all the hopes they said.
-
...I wish you can see my eyes when they're swollen red with droplets of dull crystals roll down the cheeks I so badly damaged with scratches as a fit of rage on Sunday.
But alas, I'm invisible to the naked eye like a ghost, am I the proof that paranormal entities exist?
I wish you can see my struggle as I attempt to break away.
From all the pain residing in my head that makes me think like a pessimist.
But, please, open your eyelids and expose your mind to the dark places we are living in even if it will take sometime for your eyes to get adjusted.
Uncover our eyes and wipe our tears and check our skin for cuts and scars.
We will refuse and say we're okay for the betterment of everyone else's situation.
But don't give up, for we know truthfully we have wandered into this dreadful, dark, and confusing brain maze pretty far.

We wan't to stop crying and hurting and feeling like our lives don't matter because we see ourselves as unwatered, wilted flowers given to a single mother of 3 kids whose father couldn't spare a little bit of sunshine to fill our stomachs.
Truthfully, we don't want to die, we want to find happiness and peace within ourselves to stay alive.
We want to be saved, we want to be helped, we want to be heard, and we don't want to further plummet.
So please, if you cared enough to read this poem for the betterment of our mental health, provide us the help and care, and call 1-800-273-8255.