i don’t want to be thirty and wasting brainpower on not hurting myself
i don’t want to be thirty at all because for three years i’ve thought that sixteen was the cutoff line maybe college but surely, someday, i’d find it in me to **** myself
but one more year becomes two, and i don’t even remember any of the last few months except crying and writing poems to make myself feel better and then not feeling better
i don’t want to be spending thirty minutes in the shower anymore digging my nails into my skin teetering on the edge of picking up a knife, feeling jealous of fourteen year old me who got the chance to break my skin or one month ago me who was selfish enough to keep cutting her hip even though she said she'd stop
but to present me who hasn't drawn blood since then the milestone doesn't even feel like one because this is the worst i've ever felt
and i don’t want to be this volatile, that talking to someone for five minutes keeps me floating and that not talking to one person will sink me; this is not life, and it is killing me that all i do is not **** myself, and i am tired of having each sentence start with suicide bone tired, chillingly casual suicide because nothing stops it
i’m going to **** myself, aren’t i? i don’t know where my threshold is and when i’m going to reach it but i am barely scraping by through days that should be a breeze
but what selfish ******* does that? cuts herself and then promises people who love her that she'll stop then promising herself to die because maybe they don't love her
me, i guess
i am just so miserable and sometimes i don’t care that my parents would be permanently broken or my friends scarred; maybe when i’m eighteen and just a little more alone