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

I’m Not Sorry Anymore

She remains, muttering the same two words
Bruises cover her delicate framework
Blood stained, on her scraped knees looking upward
How did she fall for his every small quirk?

Now she spends her useless time dressing wounds
Thinking back to the times before her love hurt
Her tears form lakes, depression all around
His hands always return to squeeze her heart

Electricity fills her crippled bones
Tension rises with the shake of her hands
She pleads, he screams without a change of tone
The air escapes her lungs with his commands

Her courage heightens for a mere moment
Left her life behind with one last movement

The World On Her Shoulders

Her dreams stopped
breathing before she
could even write her
name. She walks to school
every day with her ears
ringing and her heart
pounding in her hands,
her spiderman bookbag
bouncing against her back with
every step she takes,
pushing her forward.
She sits clenching
every muscle in her body,
legs shaking
beneath her desk. Her teachers say
she’s quiet and shy
but they don’t see her
gripping her heart to keep it from
falling.
They don’t see her brain
picking itself apart
trying to find a reason
why.
The bell rings and she walks home and
sits on her swing set
alone, an effort to catch
her breath before becoming
her mother’s therapist and a
shield
against her father’s fists.