I glide the blade across my thin,
paper white skin.
Funny how such a small thing
can take away such great pain.
I realize it's wrong, but yet,
I've been doing it for so long.
Deeper and deeper I go each time,
wondering if it will be my last.
The crimson liquid runs down,
down from my arm into the drain.
Down, down.
When I finish, I look in the mirror
and tell myself, "That was the last time. For good."
But it ever truly?
I question myself, asking if I want to do it again,
and the voice in my head responds, "Yes, you should."
And I do.
It makes the voices be silent,
even if just for a little while.
But this time, as I dig deeper,
as I watch the crimson run down, down.
I feel tired, and peaceful,
and it occurs to me,
I don't need to tell myself to stop again.
Because this is the last time.
And with that,
I fall into an eternal, peaceful, slumber....
~
~
This poem is not about myself but about a friend I lost to suicide...
YOU ARE READING
Sure, Thanks, I am Fine
PoesíaDepression Anxiety Insomnia Heartbreak Unloved Crazy Scared Joyful Happy Bullied Everything listed here is something I've either felt or gone through. As have many others. But is it easy to say out loud? No, it never is.
