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Jan 2019
Do you remember,
The first time someone called you a name or an ugly word?
How it wormed its way inside your head,
Like a maggot?

Nobody mentions how sometimes,
That maggot never goes away.
How it grows and grows,
Into a demon.

Nobody mentions the screams that bounce around in your head,
Pointing out every flaw and imperfection.
Nobody mentions the way silence feels like poison,
Thick and burning every inch of you.

How loneliness is like a hot iron,
Being pressed all over your skin.
They never tell you what it's like.

Nobody mentions how odd your fingers feel,
Shoved down your throat for the first time.
How it feels to be knelt over the toilet,
Forcing yourself to ***** your entire last meal.
For every meal.

Nobody mentions how you'll feel like you're on a podium,
Everyone freely seeing, freely judging every imperfection.
How they can point out every extra pound, stretch mark and scar
With perfect eyesight, perfect accuracy.

Nobody mentions how even doing things like feeding yourself,
Become chores.
Or the sound of your own retching, or anyone else's, for that matter, Echoing around the bathroom, akin to a gunshot.

Nobody mentions how it feels to cut for the first time,
Or the second, or the third.
How the blood will drip down your arm,
If you go deep enough

Or how addicted to it you can become,
Like it's some sort of lifeline, when, really,
With each cut you make and each blade you use,
You're losing time, you're losing yourself.

Nobody mentions how it feels to sit in your room, alone,
On the edge of your bed, on the edge of suicide.
How it feels to wonder if you matter.

Nobody mentions the way it builds, tight in your chest,
Like someone's taken a rope around your lungs,
Pulling tighter, and tighter, and tighter
With every second you still question everything,
Every second you're still breathing.

Nobody mentions the weight of the pills,
Once they're in your hand.
They hold your entire unexplored future.
It's no wonder they feel so heavy.

Nobody mentions the way it feels to go to sleep,
As if it is the last, wondering,
Will you make it to tomorrow morning?
Praying you just don't.

And Nobody mentions the soul crushing despair,
The disappointment when you open your eyes the next day.
Logan Cestare
Written by
Logan Cestare  15/M
(15/M)   
157
   Juneau
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