Perfect Suicide

Ch. 1 - A rough beginning

I wish things were different.

I wish I had a different life, one where my mother was alive, and my father actually cared about me. I wished when I woke up each day, I could actually be happy to be alive. I wish... I mattered.

But wishes are for genies, and I don't have one of those.

Turning towards my prison-like window, bars and all, I looked through the sheets of rain falling and wondered if I would die in this house, in this PRISON.

"Ugh..." I sighed. "It's almost like the sky knows the pain in my heart."

It was almost like it was saying, 'Don't worry, Heavenleigh. You never cry, so I'll cry for you...'

Looking down at the watch on my wrist, a gift my father gave me after my mothers' passing. I saw that it was a little past 10 p.m.; I needed to get ready for bed now; especially since I had to wake up super early. I promised Myla I'd help her curl her hair before school, and since she was a perfectionist who had no idea how to do her hair, I knew we were going to need all the extra time we could get.

But, before I could even think about doing my nightly routine, I needed to write my daily poem. At this point, it was the only thing keeping me going. There was no way I could or would ever think about missing a day.

Looking around for my favorite dark purple pen, I found it sticking out from under the vintage rug I found at the Goodwill around the corner from my house. I stood up and moved over towards my makeshift desk. I had begged my father for a real one, but he wouldn't even consider it. Instead, he gave me half a sheet of wood and four totes. I put it together as best as I could, but it was still extremely wobbly.

I hated using it, but I loved writing, so there wasn't really anything I could do. I mean, beggars couldn't be choosers, not when you didn't have anything to choose from.

As I flipped through the pages in my notebook, I couldn't help but smile. I loved books, whether they were actual books or notebooks. I didn't care. Books helped me stay sane.

Writing kept me alive.

Finding a clean page, I ran my fingers across the page.

Time to let my thoughts wander from my mind to this page.

Taking a deep breath, I dove in.

'Wispy leaves filled with hate fall all around me.

Grazing my ears softly as though to ask me,

"Why do you stay?"

"Why do you stay when you could float away?"

I wonder if each leaf lives with the freedom I crave.

To be able to glide away in a blink of an eye

Sounds too good to be true.

But I could never be a leaf.

Instead, I am the weed at the root of the tree.

Unable to be anything other than

A hindrance to growth.

I looked down at the poem I just wrote, the poem I created, and smiled. Well, I smiled my kind of smile. To others, it might look like a grimace, but it was the best I could do. It's not like I really had a whole lot to smile about.

That's why I loved Poetry. It didn't matter what the topic was or what emotions stirred up within me, poetry made me smile because it made me feel understood. It made me feel human.