“How are you?”

“How are you?”

Keep it in and everything will be okay. Just keep it in. Just breathe. Breathe! Just fucking  breathe; you are so incapable of anything, my God! Breathe. Keep it in. Stop shaking. You need to stop shaking. Stop shaking right now. I’m so sorry that I am… shh stop keep it in. Pretend it’s not there. I can’t; this is... stop. Stop breaking down. You don’t matter. You don’t get to break down. You need to be okay. Be okay. Keep it in. Bottle it up. I can’t. You have to. I hate myself. No one cares, now shut up. No thoughts, no feeling, no anything, just be okay. Okay?

“I’m okay. How are you?”

Romanticized Suicide

I just want to cry in your arms until I fall asleep. Fall asleep in your arms one last time and never wake up. I want you to hold me as my mind finally finds peace.

Hold my hand while I pull the trigger. Help me fill my pockets with stones and hold my hand until I sink into the waters. Kiss me on the forehead right before I swallow the pills and hold my body tight until I overdose.

Wipe my tears as you look into my eyes and see how hopeless I can be. See how weak I am, how sick I am, how tired I am. Look into my eyes and see what it’s like to be dead inside one’s body.

Bullet After Bullet

I rest the barrel against my head as my eyes water. My eyes water, but not of distraught or pain, but of hope. A hope of peace and a hope of being settled. A smile forms across my face as my finger clenches against the trigger. A ringing fills my ears as my soul steps out of my body. I look down upon my lifeless body doing nothing more than making a mess, taking up space.

The ringing stops.

I feel it in my chest. I feel it. It is still here.

I drop to my knees as the demons walk out of the shadows.

“Oh honey did you really think you could get rid of us that easily”

I grab the gun from my dead body and raise it to my head. I pull the trigger and the bullets shoot through me into the wall. Bullet after bullet until the chamber is empty. Laughter fills the room along with my now hopeless sobs. I crawl to my body and lay with it in the pool of blood which has formed. I cradle my dead body in my arms as the torment continues.

“You will never escape us”

They surround me and I realize I will never be free from this.

Late Night LullaBYEs (lyric poem)

Cut my leg and watch it bleed.

Drag the blood into some trees.

In God we trust they said to me.

 

Form my home, my Devil’s church.

Feel the sting, just a little hurt.

Come on sweetie, we’ll make It work.

 

One, two, three, sing your ABCs.

Bullied kids, they cry desperately.

Your jokes can burn in hell with thee.

 

Broken soul under all this meat.

Stupid fucking heart, why do you beat?

On your knees, come pray with me.

 

ABC, count your numbers please.

All these kids hanging’ under trees.

But it’s okay as long as you believe.

 

Cut my leg and watch it bleed.

Drag the blood into some trees.

In God we trust they said to me.

An Addiction to Silence

“You know you can always talk to me,” as if he were Jesus ready to forgive all my sins. My voice vibrating in my throat, beating, torturing, and nailing him up, but no sound left my mouth for I wouldn’t allow it. “You can talk to me,” as if telling someone “you know you can stop poppin’ pills and snorting that good stuff my dude.” Addiction is not simply overturned and an addiction to silence is no different. Sometimes words are much better left unsaid, because sometimes words are much worse once they have left the head. Sometimes talking is like someone stranded in a desert praying for the heat to stop. It does not solve the problem and it just wastes time down to death. Yes, I can talk to you, but even after the words remain lingering on eardrums, the thoughts will remain just as treacherous and fatal.

My Savior

He saved me in a way Satan would save someone. Nonetheless, he saved me. His voice echoed the words I wanted to hear at just the right tone and pitch to shatter glass. Of which I picked up a shard, my very own blade to feel something. An endless supply of words which granted me the gift of cutting, the gift of life. My shards drug across my skin and I had a purpose. Yes I was doing the Devil’s work, but the point was that I was doing something. I was living…feeling….bleeding. His voice the purity which brought so much pain. So much towards the backwards step in survival.

Don’t Do It

And the anxiety comes.

“Goodnight”

“What’s wrong?!”

“It doesn’t matter. Goodbye.”

“Don’t do it”

Don’t do it….then the world is supposed to be perfect. Don’t do it and all the pain will go away. Don’t do it and you will be okay…happy. Don’t do it, just simply don’t do it. I didn’t do it and I cry. The heart stopping, breath breaking, and body crippling me is still here. But everything is supposed to be perfect because he cares. He has to care because he said “don’t do it.” Don’t do it and I fell back into the burning hell inside my head, as I remain trapped under the blankets on my bed, as I feel parts of me die. Don’t do it, but I couldn’t control the part that did.

A Few of My Flaws

I am so stuck.

This pit of emptiness absorbs me.

Everything’s black.

There’s nothing.

My shoulders circle uncomfortably.

My grip tightens.

I pull my hair to try to find grounding.

I hyperventilate until I am on the brink of death.

My fingers run down my thighs,

smooth to rough to smooth.

My cuts smile back at me proud.

Another cut, another day I fought to stay alive.

The desire to scream.

The feeling of it not being okay, never forgiving myself.

I never fought back, didn’t yell for him to stop.

My passive anger remains bottled.

You Promised

Depression wipes my tears as he chokes me so sweetly close to death. He releases and allows me to take a breath. And repeat. And repeat. And I hyperventilate this time when he lets go because I forgot how to take in breaths slow. My body won’t stop shaking as I pace the room. All my panic shouts at my lungs as they refuse to calm, as they refuse to fill. I think of all the times I have apologized for shaking. All the times I explained that “I’m fine. It’s normal. I’m okay.” Then I gasp and stop. I stop trembling and I hold my breath until I inhale silently. Exhale and the feeling of emptiness in my chest rises.

Depression chains me to my bed so that I can’t move. I sit still. Too still. As part of me remains trapped in my body, my soul feels like it’s gone. I am half alive and half dead. I think of all the times I have regretted not being there for someone. Hurt someone and felt nothing, but later hated myself in every part of my being for being such trash. For embodying the devil’s spirit as depression laughs at me. He tightens my chains.

Depression hands me a blade. He’s screaming. He’s screaming and he won’t stop. I can’t breath. I’m shaking. I can’t stop shaking as my hand shifts, the blade tears open my skin. “Oh my God Mommy you promised they would help me,” as I watch the blood leave my body. “Mommy you promised they could help me,” cut after cut after cut.

Depression grabs the blade and pours alcohol over my body. I scream in pain. He applies pressure to stop the bleeding. He laughs in my face as he says not yet; we are just getting started.