Oh, don’t worry—
I didn’t die.
What a relief, right?
Because that would’ve been
”a tragic mess to explain.”
That’s what she said, word for word.

Not, ”Im glad you’re okay.”
Not, ”You matter.”
Just— wow, what a mess that would’ve been in the boarding school bathroom.
As if I was just
another inconvenience to mop up.

Imagine that scene—
a ******* cold tile,
27 stitches worth of silence,
and not one ******* hug
when I came back.

My arm still hurts.
Parts of it are numb,
like the feeling crawled from my brain
into my skin.
Like my body’s trying to forget,
but my nerves won’t let me.
It’s sore and dead and too alive
all at once.

I’m fifteen.
But I feel ancient.
Like I’ve already lived
through a war no one talks about.

Step mother told me,
”No one's going to help you.”
“No one’s going to believe you.”
Like she was proud of that prophecy.
Like she wanted me to drown
just so she could say
”told you so.”

And Mum—
the original vanisher—
she looked at me
and threw down the match:
”I don’t want to be your mum.”

Cool.
Love that for me.
Really sets the tone
for a happy childhood, huh?

So now I live at school.
In a dorm, in a room,
in a body that won’t forget
the blood, the cold, the shaking hands,
the locked door.

They say,
“You’re going to get therapy soon.”
Like that’s supposed to fix
a life built out of
people who left.

What if I sit down
and say all the things
I’ve kept under my skin,
and they just blink?
What if I unwrap my wound
and they say
”Oh. That’s it?”

I write because it’s the only way
I don’t scream.
I rhyme because the truth
sounds less deadly in a rhythm.

And yeah—
if this poem makes you uncomfortable,
then good.
Let it.
Because I sat on that bathroom floor
and almost didn’t get back up,
and all they worried about
was who’d have to explain it.

So next time you say,
”You're lucky you didn’t go through with it,”
remember:
I already did.
I just happened to survive.