Words are Weapons

Unfiltered

In the tense silence that engulfs me and my surroundings, my constant heartbeat is painfully loud, spoiling more tears down my unnaturally warm face. It's dark in the room, and I'm completely alone, under a roof of a safe house, in a safe neighborhood, in a generally very safe city.

But we are never truly safe. . .

. . . from our thoughts.

My loud heartbeat is annoying, because it constantly reminds me that I'm alive, when I could be dead. I could be gone, not having to worry about all the troubling stresses that come with the life a teenage girl, especially a teenage girl like me.

I silently pray for my heartbeat to stop. I silently pray that God allows me to finally rest. I may be only fourteen, but I'm already tired of living, and I want to die. A part of my brain scolds me for being dramatic, and tells me that no other teenage girl is like this.

But then I pose the question: how do I know?

I'd never speak these deep, dark desires to anyone, let alone my peers, and I never have. What if the same girl who always appears to be cold hearted, or the same boy who appears to be perfect at everything and incredibly well rounded, what if they too run through the same thoughts at night?

What if we're all secretly tired of living . . .

. . . but all secretly scared to die?

What if I live the rest of my trying so hard to be something or someone, but always finding myself the person having the least fun in the room?

Then is what I'm doing . . . worth it?

Maybe, if I just told someone, I could see for myself. There's a risk of finding out I am in fact the only one, but there's the hopeful possibility that maybe, somewhere, there's a girl just like me, who's secretly tired of living, but secretly scared to die.

And then maybe I can allow myself to not hide anymore, and to be completely and utterly open and candid about how hopeless I feel.

Maybe then I'll be able to

s p e a k

m y

m i n d.

U n f i l t e r e d.