A Talk About Those Who Walk Hand in Hand

*DISCLAIMER + TRIGGER WARNING*

*This was written purely by imagination and personal experience, but in no way is this poem about me.

This poem also holds a trigger warning so please be safe and careful.*

 

Do not lie to me.

Do not tell me that "this is my time".

Do not tell me that nothing is wrong.

Do not tell me that this Earth has remained uncorrupted.

Do not lie.

All I ask for is the truth.

All I ask is that you keep my head clear.

All I ask for is you.

Do not lie.

 

I can't forget,

my eyes in the mirror, cold, glazed, disinterested in what was happening within me.

Yesterday's lunch was crawling up my throat, a single apple, all crushed up and rising with the bile.

I can't forget.

The fear. I was terrified but I wanted it.

It's like an adrenaline junkie looking for a fix, except after this one, it's the end.

Do not tell me to move on. 

Do not say it doesn't matter anymore.

My entire existance is now based off of this moment.

"What can I do that's better than killing myself?"

I tried so much.

 

Self harm, in every way, eating more, eating less, eating nothing, writing, art, music,

socializing, phyciatric care, hospitals, counseling. I always relapsed.

I was hospitalized 37 times in total.

37 because I just got discharged yesterday.

37 becaused something was muttered about me a couple steps behind.

37 because I can't control myself.

37 because you can't control yourself.

37 because I'm actually rather weak.

Not strong for staying alive, not strong for trying.

I'm not strong in  those ways.

I'm strong in the way that I can be near death and still want to die, but I'm weak because I tried.

 

I marked X's on my wrists and used them for target practice, used them to map out my route to the end.

One long river down the center, and many, many bridges across so everyone can walk over the burden of my sadness.

So nobody drowns in my head, so that I am the only victim of my depression's wrath.

I always used myself to save others but it never occured to me that I needed to save myself.

I needed to do it because nobody else would and I don't want to call myself a victim but that's exactly what I am.

I am a victim of whispering darknedd that never leaves, but I can't blame anybody but myself,

can I?

Thundering footsteps and lighting words haunt my mind, push me over, help me up, try to kill me.

But isn't it my own fault?

I can never tell if it's me or not when sharp things are brought to my wrist,

when I play with the trigger of a stolen pistol as I hold it to my head,

when I gather what I always think will be the last pills I'll ever take.

I cant blame myself, but there's nobody else to blame.

 

I need something to blame,

just for a resolution,

maybe if I can find out why I can stop feeling the need to die with every single wrong in my life.

Maybe I can stop painting myself red in every unartistic way.

Maybe I can see a mistake I've made and not want to blow out my fucking brains.

But this is just a long winding path and it's going nowhere,

and at this point,

I'm losing all hope for a happy ending,

or an ending at all.

At this point I'm holding myself by a thread.

A disgusting, fraying, half rotted thread, 

but a thread.

 

Deep down there's this unnerving fear that this will never leave me,

it will haunt me even after I die

and deep down I know that's why my body has clung to life.

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