Dark Nights (Huge TW: suicide mention, self-harm mention, etc.)

Sometimes at night I
wrap a sheet
tight around my neck
watch my lips fade to blue

Sometimes at night I
write FAILURE on my thighs
in red sharpie BIG & BOLD
rewriting it over and over
until my fingers cramp
and then I write it again

Sometimes at night I
etch love letters
into my forearms
in a language only I understand
those tally marks
mean so much more
than you can see

Sometimes at night I
count pills instead of sheep
as if that would put me to sleep
as if I would actually take them
as if I actually wanted to die
as if I even had that choice

Sometimes I do these things
I’m not supposed to talk about
silent cries for help
behind a door
locked and barricaded

I have all these behaviors
these thoughts
these tendencies
that make them want to ship me
to the nearest psych unit
before I can open my mouth
before listening to my words

I have all these ideations
these images
of my own death
something clean without much mess
somewhere no one has to find me
some way I can disappear

Sometimes
people find out
because I was never
any good at hiding

Sometimes
people think I’m crazy

Sometimes
this crazy is all I have

Sometimes
I forget what’s real

Sometimes
people don’t understand

Sometimes
everything I do becomes a symptom
everything I say becomes a symptom
all my opinions become symptoms

I
become a symptom

Because I
don’t even know what’s real

Sometimes
at night I
practice my own suicide
draft notes to my mom
trying to explain it’s not her fault
always having trouble finding the words

And when I
run out of paper
or out of ink
or thoughts
or words

when my eyelids get too heavy
and my vision gets too blurry

I loosen the sheet from my neck
I wash off the words
I bandage the wounds
I put the pills away

Sometimes
at night I
do what I can to get through the night

Sometimes
my survival comes so very close to dying

Sometimes
I question if I’ll even get to morning

But
I always do

I always survive
and I’m thinking

someday
my survival might look
a little less like dying

Someday
my sheets will stay on my bed

dear heart

dear heart,
with every shaky beat,
you strive to live
when every other part of my body
tells you to stop,
you keep going
determined

dear heart,
you love so hard and so deep
and at time i hate you for it
but you love still
without condition

dear heart,
the scars on my wrists are nothing
compared to what i put you through

dear heart,
i’m not really sure how you do it
you are so damaged yet so strong
so broken yet so resilient

dear heart,
i’m so sorry

Haiku #20

She wears bracelets like
handcuffs, trapped in the cell of
blood stains and bandaids.

Cold Tiles

And her heart swelled and
blocked the air from
escaping her lungs. Her hands
trembled and her head
throbbed.
She remained glued to the
bathroom floor, not able to gather enough
strength to scream.
Every organ in her body
tightened and every muscle
contracted as her
blood streamed from her wrists and hips.
She closed her eyes.
I guess this is the way it had to be.

Things I Wish They Told Me Before I Took Comfort In A Razor Blade

Lakes form in the
bags beneath your
eyes, soaking every
red X on every exam you ever
failed, every tear filled
pillow after every red
faced, door slamming
scream, every person who took a
flight far from the explosion imploding your
brain, leaving you in the
corner of a room smaller than your
closet with blinding
walls and ear shattering
“You can’t do anything right.”

Unmade beds at
3AM and these bags transform
into suitcases where you find every
picture of every friend who lost your
number in a pile of other
nicer,
prettier,
with more to offer than
you.

Your eyes remain on the
ground next to your
confidence and
you. You’re waiting for
someone to pick it up,
place it in your battle scarred
hands, and tell you it’s okay to raise your head to the
clouds. It’s okay to let it stay there for as long as it
takes to for a smile to find a
home in your lips.

This world isn’t a shiny castle, horse
drawn carriage. You were not
created to be a footnote in
someone else’s autobiography.
I will help you unlock the
steel box you keep
yourself hidden inside, so you can
start to soak in the
starlight. I’ll give you a red
blanket to tie around your
neck like you did when
you were five. Let that
S on your chest
shine through your
clothes and

fly.

Proving Reality

You’ll rip your skin apart to
prove to yourself that you are
still breathing,
that the blood you’ll see is
still pumping
through your veins,
that every emotion
tearing through your mind is actually
real.