My bed has always played savior
as I sought refuge from my thoughts,
seeking asylum from my sanctioned brain,
I thought secrecy was my only option.
 I thought a safe haven was where I dreamed
covered in dark sheets to hide the blood that I bleed. 
 Dark covered pillow cases hid tear drops
that fell from an abyss of abandonment.
Placed over my head to shield the 
sound of what yields me.
 My blanket was my security. 
But nothing could protect me
from myself.Nothing could 
secure my sanity or preserve
my judgement.  A couple of nights ago,
I committed suicide in my sleep.
 I slit the throat of all the words
that I had wrote.And hung memories
on the wall, from a noosewrapped in 
bloody clothing and bandages. I laid there in my bed, dead.
 Sheets covered in the soot of my own sorrow. 
I was mentally ill, sick… Of my own existence.