I am suicide,

entangled on the wrong line of conversation – 1-800-273-8255.
My existence crumbles, while my life is degrading; emotions
constantly rearranging, while death lingers, with due patience.
I am the impure linen stained with the tears of pain. I am the
cacophony of voices in my own brain, the picture of love, yet
my heart beats with a hollow rhythm, feeling so plain.

I am time,

as it twists and bends, mirroring the sharp twist of a knife by
my side. I am unkind to myself – hate myself in secret, but in
public I always smile so bright. My happiness is a reflection –
I am the moon, a distant memory, until you remember a
beautiful night.

I am poison,

the chlorine of sorrow, and so wasted in my wasteful tears.
Each breath is heavy with the weight of my fears, I am a grave
to bury my griefs. I am sometimes a religious person, with iffy
beliefs. I struggle to believe in myself, as often as I can believe
in others, while my dreams fade into monochrome colours.

My mind runs around wanting to die, yet I cling to the will
to create; on what I can write. To write is to stay alive!