Pride or Prejudice

Sometimes I find it hard to decide

If the remnants of razorblade tears
Are a sign of strength or weakness
A blessing or a curse
To be hidden or worn proudly

On the one hand
I survived
I persevered
I endured

But then
I fell
I faltered 
I caved


Suicide Note: Another Rough Draft

Here I am again
Writing a letter I’ll never send
And likely never finish
Attempting to justify that which we do not name
I am unraveling
S l o w l y
I am coming apart
I have seen better days than these
But I am unimpressed
I’m holding out for a new tomorrow
A better day
But life ain’t been no crystal stair
And better days don’t exist in this place
And tap tap goes the blood drop
On the pretty bathroom floor
Tick-tock goes the clock, as feet dangle from the door
And my brain says, “Do it.”
“You’d be happier dead.”
“Doesn’t that blade look so pretty covered in red?
And doesn’t it feel so good to close your eyes
Knowing you won’t have to wake up to say goodbye?”
But I delay
I postpone
I keep looking to tomorrow
The promise of tomorrow
I just need to make it through today

Suicide Note: A First Draft

I’ve written this in my head hundreds of times
And I’ll never send it
But I keep writing it
Pouring my soul into words
Never meant to be read
An explanation of my grievances against existing
Against my brain’s inability to function without medications designed to turn me into a walking zombie
With false smiles
False moods
Until I forget who I am
But the alternative is worse
Numbness and pain
And a dark gaping hole in my soul
And I can’t breath for the weight of expectations
of responsibility
of living
And I wasn’t made to thrive in the light
So I must fight the darkness
Lest it consume me.
But sometimes
Sometimes the numbness
The darkness
Is a relief

Pocket Full of Rocks

Hanging onto life by my fingertips
Wrapped in silver linings
Wrought from good intentions
My brain is not my friend
That traitor is whispering sweet nothings
Promises of relief and rest
And an end to the constant struggle to stay aloft
But my fingertips are glued to that ledge
And though I’d peel the skin off my fingertips
Cut my hand off at the wrist
Just to release
The blade is dull by the time I touch it to my wrist
I must not want it enough
Instead I fill my pockets with rocks
Tie cinder blocks to my feet
And wait to slowly slip away