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Empire Nov 2019
Trigger warning: Suicidal thoughts/ideation


I want it
I do
I want to die
I want to be dead
I am done living
Living has only brought me pain
Only offered me sorrow
To **** me would be to show mercy
Euthanize the suffering
I w̴̳̆ant ̴͕͝t̵͇́o̶̥͋ diē̸̩
I'm̷̩͆ ̸̪̈ṛ̸͆eaḋ̸̪y to̷̲̓ ̵̘͠d̷͉͑ie
̷̬̚Ì̴̧ can̷̖͘'̷̬̅t̶̳͘ ̵͙͑die

I̵͎̪̤̐͝ ̶͇̜̖͂̃ẁ̵̳͓̘̾a̷̗̩̤̥̿n̶̖͝ͅṱ̶̾̒͗͆ ̶̢͔͇͑̐̓͗t̷̟̘̲͌̍͝o̵̯̊͗ ̸̨̨̃d̴̙̥͚̅̓͛͆͜i̷̘̬͍͍̐ȇ̸͎

̷̛̰̦̝̩̑̐Ỉ̵͔̼̝'̶͎̬̀m̴̠̓͆ ̷̼̀r̴̦̖͕̦̊̏̐̾ẹ̵̢̙̭̓a̵̹̤̎̉͑d̷͉̓̎͜ͅy̷̛̲͍̔͛͐ ̵̡̰̯̉t̵̳̓ȯ̸̮͍͜ ̷̙̘̎d̴̹̝̘̄̌́̈́ȋ̵̞͔̉̑ͅě̸̡͈̞

̴̞͉̹̓̇I̴̤̙̪͓̊̂ ̴̜͍̣̌͘c̸͕̋̍́á̷̬̝̽́͊n̸̨͛̚͘'̵̡̦̙̏t̸̛̺͔̓͗ ̴̱̖͈̌͒d̴̗̃̐͘i̵̯̋̔̑̃ë̴̦̳̯̲́



I̷͇̥̲̮̔̋̋́̃̅̑̐͠ ̷͙̫͈̜̬͓͛́̋͌́̎́ͅͅw̴̧̛̞͈͓̱̠͈̙̲͉̥̱̱͎̐̒̅̈̌͐͑̓̇͗͆̚̕͜͜͜͠͝͠͠ͅa̶̋͑͐͛͑͗͂̕͝­̢̪͈͚̻̦̳̤̭̰̫̬̤͇̲̚ͅͅn̷̛̻̲̹̙̖̻̋̅̊͋̈͑̐̀̂̏́̈́̒̄̓̂̽̈́̃̆͜͝͝t̸̋̔̐̀̓̎̽̃̋̇̓͘͘­͍̘̰̦͕̥̹̹͚̳͔͖̫̠͉̱͇̗̪͇ͅ ̷̤̭̞̮̗̤̱͓̟̙̲̾̀͜ͅť̷̨̛͓͓͈͓̫͔̝̳̱̘̱̘̲̙̖̪́̀̒͗̈̀̈̎͑͜͜͝o̶̧͉̱̤͌̇̆̏̂̒̋͒̍̈́­̡̡̺͈͎̭̠̤̩̰̞̩̣̩̪̠̺ ̷͉̪̀̊́́̅̃͋̕̚͘d̴̢̖͖̲̭̹̪͎̥̼̜̼͍̝͍̤̩̞̹̈̈́̈́͌͜ͅį̶̡̢̻͉̰̙̙͚̹͍̝̮̭̑͊̎͝e̸̛͌͘­̡̨̼̖͉̫̣̣͍̭̺̬̳̍̓̚͜͜͜
̴̪͍̞̖̖̼͕̳̘͔͍͖̓͒̋̇̀̐̉̒͑̒̌̓͋̈́̂ͅ
̴͑̎̅̈̊͊͌̐͗̈́̓͛̃͝­̧̧̧̡̡͈̭͎̘͙̥͚̮̗̤͙̫
̶̡̧̨̨̨̛̫̝͎̖͎̞͔͔͈͈̥̭̦̖̪͈͐̎̆̎͊̑̄̓͐͘Ḯ̶̛̈́͐̀̀̒̔͒͋͘̚­̧̡̛͍̯̹͔͎̖̞̭̦̖͑̌͂͜'̵̡̛̱̜̰̳̭̯̱̞̤̥͉̱͓̣͈͚̟̱͚̖͙̿͋̇̎͗̃̀̄̀͐̅͘ḿ̶̯͚̬̉̂̀̽̕­̡͕͉̜̟̘̱̙̝͍̼̭̞̻̣̝ ̵̡̢͈͎͈͖̯̗̜̰͖̲͈̬͚̮̈́̈́̑́̚ͅr̵̟̥̥̭̖̯̰͔̯̞͖̺̗͉̬̖̪̹͚̔̆͂̈́̇̀̕͘͜͝e̸̽̇͂̂̈͒̄͘­̙͓͔͕̬̙͖̈́̔̏͛́͆́͗̃̽̆̾͆͋̕a̵̧̨̢̧̮͖̙͓̝̟͓̗̥͈̰͊͂͌͊̄̂̎̓̎̈́͂̈́̾ͅͅd̶̔̈̍̉͛̏̈́̆­̢̨̖͙̦͕̲͈̰̯͕͎̬̼̑̐̄̐̽́͊̄̾͑͌̕̕ÿ̵̧̡̛̛̩̭̱̖͈̖͎́͌̑́͗̈́͗̀̀̊̚ ̴̡̻̺̹͆͂͗̇̐͌t̶̢͚̣̓̅́̎̉̽̇͌͗̊̾̾̊͌̑͌͘͠͝ṓ̷̢̳̋͂̇͘͝ ̷̔͊̾̉̐̅̋́ͅd̴̡͉̫̺͔̹̜̘̝̻̳͖̙͗͋̈̀̇͑͆͂̀̐̊̽͊̎̑̈̃͆͘̕͜͜͠i̴̛̙̗̍̐̍́͒̔̈́e̶͋̀́­̛̖̱̯̪͌͠
̶̛̫̼̰̟̳̻̦̱͈̯̃̔̀͂͒͑͊͒̆̃͐̿͒͝͝ͅͅ
̵̢̹̘̱̖̩̈́̈́͆̽́̑̏͑̑̓̽̆̀̈́̅͆̓́͝͝­̨̨͔̳̦̦͓̭̤̭̹̗͎͍̬̻͜
̴̼̦̆̓͗͒Ī̶̧͙̰̘̘͙̺̺͖̦̫͍͕̲͖̺̣̱͔̖̍͌̀͛̕͘͝ͅ ̷̛̠̤̻͔̰̠̣͈̹͈͔̟̮̉͌̉̚͘c̴̢̡̛̜̹̺̻̪̠̯͗͗̑̇̍̄͋́̌̈̍̑͒͑͘ȃ̵̛̟͇̜̻̇́͊̑͌͊̋͛̄͆­̲͚̘͎̱̮̦̘͜ͅn̵̤̻̩̯̝̈̅͒͒̈́̒͒͐̽̏̓͌͐̄̈́̕̚͘̚͠͝'̴̩̥̝̘͓͚͇͓̖̊̓̀̀̂̍͂̀́͛̐̈́̕͠͝ͅ­͖̳̺̳̥͉̖̩͜t̷̢̨̡͈͚̘͈̣͖͈̤̟͎̤̙̩̩͕͙͈̳̍̓͐͗̍̓̄̾͗͒̎̿̈̈́͘̚ ̴̛̜͉̜̀͂̊̀̾̿͂͌̒̋̿̀̈́̽ḑ̴̜̻͓͕̱̲̟͔̰̜̣̺̠͎̰̗̥̞͍̭̻̯̉̑͋̍̓̅͛͛̽̓͂̄́̓͊͗̉͛͘i̴­̧̹̱̪̤͍͖̱͈͈͔͙̝̟̤͒̀̏̄̽͋̓̔̑̌̃̐͘̕͝ẽ̶̢̜̤̲̣̮̜̱͓̹̮͋̇́̀́͆̂̈́̊̋͋̈̅̈́̀͒̔̈͝͠ͅ­͕͖͇̗
Strong suicidal ideation tonight...

I'll be alright someday...
CarolineSD Sep 2019
There is a darkness,
No, a place of emptiness,
Where everything is nothing but mist
And fog and it stretches forever with no beginning and no end
And I can see it when I close my eyes.
And all of the color of life
Even the chatter of my children through the house
Is drowned by
The thickness of this dense shroud
Laying heavy between the broken fragments of my mind.
Neurons and synapses are scattered like ruined monuments to some other country and I can’t
Recall its name.
My country fell and I can’t stand.
I’m cold tonight and thinking of snow;
The way it could fall upon my face and deafen all of these rough voices.

I would just let go.
I'm ok, but this is what depression feels like. I've been there and I survived and sometimes I still have to fight the pull of that darkness inside, even though I'm always smiling. If you've been there, too, you are not alone <3
Fox Friend Mar 2019
these scenarios are stuck on loop in my head
my palm full of pills,
& The Orange Bottle of Liberation, now empty
as I fall asleep
The squealing of tires on tar as glass shatters
& I become one with the street

so many ways to stop being
what do you mean these thoughts aren't normal?
this is all my brain plays

on loop, on loop, on loop
Jules Jan 2019
the condominium i have stayed in
for almost two years now
stands at forty-five
stories high.
from the ground below
it looks like some skyscraper
a scrambled mess of uniformity
and abstraction.
i live on the thirty-sixth floor.
sometimes,
as i stare up its great height,
i find myself counting the windows,
trying to pinpoint my temporary home
from my blurry place on the earth below.
around this tower of concrete there is only air.
behind it the sky sits white and endless.

i live on the thirty-sixth floor.
i find myself thinking:
if i jump,
i'd never survive the fall.
maybe
it is one of those high-enough cliffs
that i'd feel myself falling
for an age
before the shatter.
a breathless,
screaming
thrill
before the end.

after looking my fill
i bring my gaze to the path in front of me again,
my mind returned to earth,
and walk,
steady.

i live on the thirty-sixth floor.
once, i opened the door
to the great open sky
and met the eyes
of the earth below.
the height brought with it
a vertigo i could not name.
from here,
the road below was perhaps as thick as a finger.
my heart pounded in time
with the shriek of traffic.
my feet lifted onto my toes
and i thought:
the fall would **** me,
easy.
i thought:
i am so small.
the idea is comforting
in the strangest way.

i step back,
my feet refinding floor tile,
hands fumbling for the handle,
and close the door.
i'll be on this cliff's edge forever
The Lioness Oct 2018
The nights grow long
The air grows cold
My mood is changing
I'm so very tired

My homework suffers
As I spend every minute I can asleep
I lose interest
I stop using my healthy coping skills

The blade it calls me
Thank god long sleeves are the norm now
I watch the blood drip
I feel the pain

I know now I'm not numb
I want to die
But courage I lack
Or is it fear that keeps me here

So instead I clean my gun
Oil my handcuffs
Polish my boots
Cause evil never sleeps

I take my pills
They kinda help
I've stopped eating
There's to much stress.

When will summer come again
I miss the happiness
I miss the manic
Will I ever find peace
Jules Jul 2018
the images
come in flashes,
now:

red lines on my dark skin;
a loose noose;
a cliff to fall from
and a fear of falling.
the tip of a sharp blade
against my throat.
(for some reason
i never think of guns.)

they come unbidden
in the midst of everything:
while i am eating;
in conversation with family;
in the shower;
when i wake up in the mornings
wondering why i have still awoken,
and in these moments,
time slows,
stretches out like a drawn-out punishment
while i watch myself stare into nothing.

the indescribable messy affair
of limbo,
of nothing being bad
but nothing being good;
of things not being terrible,
but feeling that they are about to be;
of wanting to leap off the cliff
before you are pushed off;
a pretence
of control.

outside, the storm keeps raging,
and a tree knocks on my bedroom window.
i sit up in time to see the lightning
illuminate a leaf
blown off of its tree.
in the morning, the leaf will have dried
or be floating in flood.
it will not see the storm pass;
it will only turn yellow
and crumple under someone’s foot.
a satisfying crunch.
i wonder only if the leaf had the chance to leap
before the wind pushed it off.
lately i have been wondering
that if everything leaves eventually,
what is the point of arriving at all.

in my bed,
with only the thunder to speak to,
i lay back again.
i plead with the images to let me sleep,
and close my eyes.
this was written in one go and unedited, for the words have been begging to be written down for a long time. my only regret is that i cannot properly tag this with its triggers, but i do not feel comfortable posting this anywhere else. it is nice that i can come back to this site always, even after half a year, when there is little else. if you are struggling, do not go yet. i only want you to know that you are not alone in the battle.
Fox Friend Sep 2017
Sometimes they intrude accompanied by waves of terror.
Most times, though, they prance in unashamed as if they were an old friend, thought to be always welcome.
What they do not realize is that I desire to leave them behind, like whispers lost in the wind.

"They" are those thoughts of death that visit me in all hours.
They have no boundaries.
They rustle through my thoughts while I deliver baked goods to neighbors.
They pester me as I laugh - really laugh - with loved ones.
They are a familiar companion during those cold drives in the rain.
They prompt me to think of the notes I might write for friends if I leave.
They make sure they are never forgotten, especially when I think I'm ready to move on.

They are
a familiar poison
a seemingly eternal toxicity
an incurable disease
a malignant influence
and so many other things.

As much as I call them these things, though, there is one thing that I can never deny - that is:
"They" are familiar and familiar things are not forgotten.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Take my mother-in-law, please…
Knock knock. Who’s there? Banana.
This is how I feel:
like an old, bad joke.

Demineralised tears, salty chinhairs.
Watching the girls go by
from a blanketed bathchair.
This is how I feel:
like a sad old man.

I can’t play guitar .
I can't shoot up smack.
I can’t  position, point and blast the shotgun.
This is how I feel:
like a one-armed Kurt Cobain.

Carcrash *****. Gross gunt.
***** like the Predator’s face.
Vertical smiley with lips of eviscera
Francis Bacon might attach on messenger.
This is how I feel:
like a fat ugly ****.

You haven’t called me.
You don’t care like you used to.
You don’t care at all, but why should you?
How you feel is how I feel,  
I empathise entirely.
But you get to dump me,
I have to annihilate me.
cassiopeia miel Nov 2015
"It's been a long day without you my friend,
and I'll tell you all about it when I see you again." - Wiz Khalifa, 'See You Again.'

I think of you every day. There hasn't been one day where you haven't stomped your combat boots around the darkness of my mind.

Yesterday was a bad day where everything especially reminded me of you; you, who shot himself in the head earlier this year. I woke up this morning frantically searching for my phone to go on Facebook in a panic because I had a very real-feeling dream where another friend killed herself, too. I wanted to hold her hand and kiss her sweet face. I wanted to ask her why she didn't tell me. I wouldn't have stopped her, I would've held her hand and jumped off that bridge with her.

I woke up feeling like my chest was collapsing and I found out that it wasn't true, but I am still without you and
I don't know what makes me sadder, the fact that I can't let you go, or the fact that I'm still ******* here. Even my body rebels against me, against my attempts to strip this universe of my existence.

I don’t know what makes me madder, people, or having to act like everything is okay.
I go through the motions, I follow routine, but there's nothing inside. (The lights are on, but nobody's home.)

You are a ghost, but you are the man that I love most. Try as I might, but I can't let you go. It's been 9 months, minus 2 days and I have missed you for every. single. moment.

It's not fair. 19.5 years is not long enough for a good person to live. What have you endured that has broken you? Are they like what has broken me? There's so many unanswered questions, you robbed those you left behind of their answers. There's so much of life you will never see. You'll never get that house with the white picket fence, no dogs or cats, no kisses or impromptu late night walks to nowhere, no wishes of 'goodnight's and 'good luck's (Hell, no one even got as far as the last chance for 'goodbye.'), but then again, neither will I.

You haunt me. I would ask--I would beg--if you could please visit me in my sleep, but I don't sleep so much anymore.

// (I don't believe in any biblical Heaven or Hell, but if there is somewhere good people go after they die, I hope it is each person's personalised halcyon. I hope you finally received the freedom, happiness, and love that you did not in this life. If you are short, I will see you soon, and I will bring all of the third.)
this isn't a poem. this is an honest, open letter to someone who will never get to read it.
Yasha Harkness May 2015
There are some days
When the wondering is so strong
That leaving the house
Would be a very stupid thing to do.
For those who only think, about that centimeter between themselves and the edge.
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