who knew
that words would hurt
just as bad as
the blade
that was tearing my skin

Sometimes it isn't the reality of death that shakes us, but simply the loss of beautiful life.

When I was young I used to long for tragedy to swiftly come and relieve me of my family...

I didn't want my life.

I figured if they were gone then there would be nobody to hurt when I made my departure, and I wouldn't have to watch them waste away...

It seemed logical to me...

I would wonder why when I started talking openly about my own suicide people would get really quiet and even clam right up.

I didn't understand why it was such a big deal...

(I mean it is my life isn't it?)

I was confused as to why they couldn't be happy for me knowing what I wanted to do with my life..
                  I didn't understand...

I thought to finish "the race" was the goal.

And it made sense to me that if I did not fit into these classifications of occupation that I had no business being here...

(So why drag it out?)

               I thought it could be like a celebration...

All of us gathered around a bedside or a table somewhere with balloons all around us

And for the time we had together we would all be smiling...

Laughing in photogenic blissful ambience.

Fading out of focus because the end is too cold to bear...

I was so confused...

But the feeling never really went anywhere...

It just stayed.

And I didn't...

The first time isn't deep
It's basically just a scratch from the blade
It doesn't bleed a lot
But just enough
To feel the rush

The second time isn't much deeper
"It hurts to much"
But he still feels release
"The pain feels good"
One last slow cut across his wrist

The third time is deeper than before
It's bleeding more
It's hurting less
He loves it more
Hates it less

The fourth time he passes out
He cut deep enough to split the skin
"It makes me feel better"
He explains
"I like it. It puts the hurt on the outside"


The fifth time he goes to the hospital
It's an addiction
Just like other things
He can't stop
No matter how hard he tries

The sixth time there is no pain
He hates having a girlfriend
Then he will need to explain
She will leave him
He couldn't handle it

The seventh time it's his throat
He's home alone
Music blasting
He has a knife
Pressed against his throat
Crying
Hurting
Wanting to be gone

One quick swipe*
It's all over

and i am caught in an anonymous place
somewhere between healing and haunting
between numb and seering with pain
decaying and blooming
somewhere where the future
looks dangerously like an exit sign
and where the broken pieces on the floor
don't quite make a mosaic

I don't know what hell you've been through,
I'm not sure how many days,
You've endured loneliness and neglect

You could have reached out.
Instead, you decided.
Living was just a game,
And completely took everyone by storm.

And I'm not sure why
You took your own life.

I'll question it 'til the end of time.

You've had so much going for you.
But in your eyes, there was nothing left to live for

Why you couldn't speak up,
Before it was too late...

Why you didn't tell anyone,
And only gave us a short moment's notice.
Before you pulled that trigger

How was it logical,
Perfectly normal,
For you to think
You'll leave this world today?

...Now all we have,
Are the memories and the image of
What we once knew how you used to be

Depression suffocates it's victims.

It engulfs their thoughts with nothing less
than the repetitive deafening drumming
that have been put on display through the
art work on my wrists.

'Oh no it's my cat, he's a scratcher'.

They look at me with pity in their eyes.
Stop it.
Stop looking down at me like a lost girl who needs guidance,
like a stupid girl who needs to pop a pill to make her smile.

I'm no clown,

I don't feel the need to draw on a smile.
As if I'd believe my own pathetic excuses.
But do you truly realise what agony my own soul is feeling?
Do you know I open my skin up to release my demons?
Do you know I cry to cleanse my body of the holy water I surely do not deserve.

Skin and bones.
Scarred and fragile.

I sit in a room full of boisterous people
still feeling like part of the wallpaper.
Still feeling like the transparent vase amidst the
decorated clay pots.
The colour of my life has been stripped back to the bare
blacks and whites.

Yes, I'm okay.
No I'm not.

Yes, I'm just really tired.
No, I'm tired of living.

Yes, everything is fine.
No, my world is crashing down around me.

Yes, I'll be fine
No, you'll be lucky to see clean wrists tomorrow.

Yes, I've been eating.
No, I haven't eaten, when I do, I throw it back up in disgust.

Yes, I feel confident.
No, I just wish I was perfect.

Yes, I'm fine being alone.
No, I just want somebody to love me...

Yes, I'm telling the truth*
No, I'm telling the truth.