Sometimes there are days,
The rare days
When the medication seems to be working.
When life seems bearable,
And I see a future for myself.

But then I get to thinking,
What is it all for?
What does it all amount to?
What is my purpose in this world?

The answer is simple:
Nothing.

Spiraling once again,
I realize I want to be dead.
But right now I cannot die,
Too inconvenient a time.

So I turn to the next best thing,
To the scissors in my bathroom.
A tiny, silver, dainty pair,
That nobody would imagine the use for.

My left wrist,
Wearing a permanent white bracelet.
The skin on my hips, discolored with tally marks
Of each minute I wanted to die.

But I'm not dead.
Most would call that an achievement.
I call it weak.

I don't have the guts to get what I want,
I'm too afraid to take it.
I do though, and I realize
That at the moment I don't truly want it.