The diary of Seth Alexander

Flowers To A Grave

I think I stopped living at the age of 15.

My memory flickers and all I get are hints of who I use to be.

Filtered rage; the desperate clawing of my own skin, fresh waves of tears, the silent screams that got lodged in my throat.

A draw full of pills labelled, "In case of emergency," and pencil sharpeners with the screws undone.

I still feel just as childish as I was back then.

Never being able to cope with my own emotional instability.

Never being able to explain that I didn't have a reason for it.

For the pictures covered in blood smears. For the bookshelf in front of my bedroom door. For the pain in my heart that just never went away no matter how much I clawed at my chest.

5 years later and I still don't have a reason for it.

You say, "depression." and I don't recognise it as an illness I suffer with, but just another name for myself.

You say, "Attempt," and I say, "release,"

I dig myself a grave and I take flowers to it every night before I fall asleep.

I spend so much time with it that I get home sick when I'm not there.

You say, "Recovery," but I don't know what that's suppose to mean to me.

I go through the motions and I do it with a smile and I pretend like I care and sometime I even do, but underneath it all, I'm still bringing flowers to that grave.

I rip the petals off, one by one, "Will death take me today."

I no longer rush our meeting, but I'm still longing for it.

Still holding my breath and watching cars, looking for strong enough supports, glancing off bridges and walking too close to the platforms edge.

"Not taking the leap, but hoping for a strong breeze to tip me over."

I've finally started living again, but I wonder what that even means to me...

Moving through life with a dead heart, struggling to beat.

feeling homesick and thinking off wilted petals.