1-800-CRISIS *trigger warning*

a question most have 

but none ask:

why suicide?

life has so much more to offer,

they say.

it gets better,

they promise. 

what the fuck do they know about life?

suicide is more than the wrist cutting,

head-in-hands teenager pictured on billboards 

alongside a 1-800 number. 

depression is wanting to poor a glass of 

dad’s whiskey and swallow mom’s 

bottle of OxyContin. 

depression is taking a shard of broken glass

and slicing down, down, down. 

anxiety is standing in an open road

and hoping a few hundred pounds of 

metal can stop the endless flood of certifiable thoughts. 

anxiety is feeling the blood rush to your head

and staggering across an empty room--

cheap vodka in hand-- and telling yourself you’ll never go that far again;

but you do.

you go farther.

you open the bottle of pills,

write the notes,

look at that mess of disheveled hair in the mirror 

one last time. 

and then you stop.

not today--

someday. 

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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