I scream and I cry.
When is enough, enough?
I could end it now with the slice of a knife,
or the bullet of a gun.
When can I let go and be free?
Welcoming the pleasant darkness that will engulf me.
Happiness is a fucking lie.
A myth of some sort.
The misery and guilt cut it abrupt.
End it now.
My hands shake as I hold the knife.
The cool metal against my skin.
I press the edge of the knife down slightly.
I hiss at the stinging sensation as I do.
I choke back hysterical laughter.
I'm done,
I'm free.
No more guilt nor pain.
Succumb to the darkness.
Smile, you're free.
________________________________
Self-harm in any of its forms is bad and addictive. Suicide is even worse. If you don't want to talk to someone you know, there are online chat groups. It may seem weird, but who else is better to share your life story with than a stranger?
(I am a major hypocrite but a hypocrite with good intentions.)
;
YOU ARE READING
state of being hopeless
Poetrystate of being hope·less I saw yellow in the shadow of doubt. A glimpse of the sun? No, I saw you. I Made A Wish. You Made It Come True. The darker the sky; the brighter the mind. ;
