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Sometimes I feel magnificent.
I feel like I’m unstoppable,
a force to be reckoned with.
My actions aren’t well thought through,
with suicide attempts on impulse.
I’m running off of a few hours of sleep,
and I feel like nothing can knock me down.
I love myself,
and I love the world.

But then comes the lows.
I can’t get out of my bed,
and my pillowcases are stained with blood, mascara, and tears.
I claim I’ve never felt this awful,
which I’ve said the last five times this happened.
I sleep for too long,
and I feel inferior.
I hate myself,
and I hate the world.

Now I write my notes,
apologies for hurting everyone.
And then the good comes again,
but I only wait
for this ******* cycle to repeat again.

Warning-This poem contains themes of self harm and suicide.

What will it take for you to finally care?
You never cared to ask how I was doing,
and then when I ended up in the hospital,
you were all over me,
asking questions,
and telling me I was going to be okay.

Will it take my suicide for you to admit you were wrong for what you did to me?
You'll keep lying to our friends
until the day I die.
Then, you'll feel too guilty to keep this lie going,
and you'll cave in.

Will it take me carving deep wounds into my skin for you to say you're sorry?
When you see the cuts
I know you'll ask me if I'm okay because your mom is worried about me.
You know I'm not,
but we're both liars here.

Now I lay here,
in my bed, covered in my own blood,
wondering
what will it take
for you to listen to my problems,
for you to apologize,
for you to care,
for you to realize you were a terrible friend to me.

I wanted to be loved.
I didn't want romantic relationships,
but I wanted to feel nurtured,
cared for.

I knew I was a lesbian,
but I still dated men.
I wanted validation.
I wanted to feel small again.
I wanted to feel important.

I hid my true self so more people would like me.
I didn't share my interests in worries of being made fun of,
and I didn't share what I was going through.
I didn't want people to think I was weird.

Now I show my true self.
Not as many people like me,
but that's alright.
I don't like them either.

Warning-This poem contains themes of suicide, self harm, and depression.

My first depressive episode was last May.
My friend was on the phone with my boyfriend, and I worried he wouldn't date me for much longer.
I didn't even like boys,
I just wanted to feel loved.
I sat in the rain and thought about killing myself.
"What is happening to me?" I asked myself.
Maybe it was jealousy,
Maybe it was my period.
But I knew there was something wrong.

I had another depressive episode in August.
I couldn't stop thinking about self harm and suicide.
I tried to enjoy my vacation in Washington at my grandma's house,
but it was hard to enjoy while I was silently suffering.
I relapsed on self harm after that.

It happened again in November.
I filed a suicide report on myself at school.
Even though I had a school play that day, and a vacation later in the week, I couldn't bring myself to want to live.
I was pulled into the counselor's office at school and got sent home.
I cried on the couch when I got back home.

Again in December.
I was used to this by now.
I banged my head on my bedframe because I so desperately wanted to punish myself.
I was stuck in flashbacks of my trauma.
"If this is my life," I'd tell myself,
"then I don't want to be here anymore."
I cut myself on the train tracks and visualized myself getting hit by a train.
What made it worse was being cheated on.

The worst of my depression was in February.
I was hospitalized on Valentine's Day.
I had a plan to run in front of a train on the 15th,
and I had to sleep on my parents' floor so I wouldn't hurt myself
until I was admitted to a residential treatment center.

Now, I'm on better medications to help with my depressive episodes.
I'm still not perfect,
and not necessarily thriving or doing well,
but I'm doing better.
Thankfully.

I know how it feels to be invalidated.
The words, "try harder," and "just stop" replay in my head like a movie.
I would take that advice if it was that easy,
but that's not how my brain works.

I know how it feels to feel like an anomaly.
I grew up different from all the kids, I was weird and I had scars on my arms and legs.
If it were possible, I'd be normal,
but there's no fun in being like everyone else.

I know how it feels to be minimized.
We were both so young that it "doesn't matter."
I wish I could let it go,
but I won't forgive her until I get an apology.

I know how it feels to not be trusted.
I was too unsafe to be by myself.
I slept on my parents' floor in their bedroom, sometimes for several days.
but I don't know when I'll be able to regain that trust.

Warning- This poem contains graphic descriptions of suicide attempts and self harm.

I remember the days with my hands wrapped around my throat.
My wrists were cut up and my eyes were filled with tears.
I was only ten.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember thinking I was better off dead.
I'd been almost a year since I'd cut myself,
but I sat thinking about suicide in the rain.
I was only eleven.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember taking a ton of pills before school and sitting by the door with a belt around my neck.
I couldn't stop cutting, but I was feeling happy.
I was only twelve.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember writing this poem.
I'd finished writing all of my suicide notes, with a plan to **** myself on a random Sunday.
I'd given up cutting and was on three antipsychotics.
I was only thirteen.
I'm ready to never feel this way again.