Another Poem About Suicide

That night in April was the worst night of my life.

Oh here she goes again

Blades weren't helping

There were no more tears to cry

Another depressed girl telling us about how she almost died

Pills on the kitchen counter? No I don't know if those will work.

Slicing straight down my arms? Bleeding out takes too long.

Hanging myself in my closet? There's nothing strong enough to hold me.

Drowning in the shower? Maybe, but who wants to be found dead AND naked?

At this point we want you to go back and have actually killed yourself. At least then we could pretend to be sad rather than sympathetic. Sympathy is just so draining.

The world seemed to fall out from under my feet

There was nothing to hold onto

I was just another speck of dust floating away in the wind

At least we don't deal with individual specks of dust.

I was lost

Wanted to run

Wanted to hide

Wanted to disappear 

Wanted to die.

We get it. You were going to kill yourself

There was no other option

I was sure of it

The world would go on without me 

I wasn't needed anymore

I had never been needed


That week in April was the strangest week of my life

There's more?

From my bed at home to a mattress in the emergency room to a cot in a psych ward.

I made friends

The lonliest people are the friendliest

The most depressed have the lovliest smiles

The most violent are the most gentle

Must you go on? This isn't anything I haven't heard before.

And life is precious

One girl had been there for three months.  

One of my roommates had been there six times.


We are the stories you don't hear.

The survivors. 

Tell me about it...

The girl that had been there six times? 

That's six times she lived. And she's still alive today

Good for her. Can I leave now?

It shouldn't take someone dying for the world to realize,

We have a problem.


People are killing themselves.

Teenagers are killing themselves.

Depression is claiming the lives of so many souls that just couldn't hold on any longer.

And that's sick. Twisted. Terrible.

When will it end?

When will we realize that mental illness is just as important as physical illness?

When will the stigma die out?

When will I be more than just a statistic?

I can't answer those questions.

But maybe you can. 

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Life is a beautiful gift that people destroy. People kill you but with your own hands. I understand this story. Life is a beautiful earthquake, the whole time I was reading this I was wondering the same thing. Life doesn't have to be like this. But it is. And the people who try to change it are the ones who have been through it. Every one else looks at it as a part of that person. When they're wrong. It's a diaese that needs a cure.

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