petrichor

prolonged insignificance

[ this may be triggering to some audiences, viewer discretion is advised ]

as the year progressed,

i became more and more encapsulated in my own self hate.

losing touch with my self love and ditching my worth in about a week

was perhaps a terrible idea, but nonetheless it happened.

a spinning top that stopped dancing, but no one will twirl it between their fingers.

the suicide notes i never wrote pulsed at my finger tips

blooming red on paper, as i stabbed a notebook once more with my pen.

if i had been asked what i was looking forward to in life, i may have said

"i'm not sure yet" or "for this to be over"

pills always readily available, i had never had the balls

we all knew it.

my peers' voices echoing in my head,

never quite recognising them as my own behind a mask.

i had thought about it a lot.

the best way to die, the words i would leave, the place i would depart from.

another thing i pondered was what would happen if i asked for help

or if i told someone i was struggling and couldn't find true north

if i were to do the thing everyone talks about, speaking out.

i would receive three responses:

my parents would insist upon suicide-proofing the house,

treating me with baby gloves,

my "friends" would say 'oh my gosh, so jealous. at least your parents care.'

my counselor at school would tell me that talking about it makes it better.

i would notice three more things:

my parents would never get me a therapist, even if i had actually attempted.

my "friends" only cared about being the edgiest snowflake in the bunch,

as they switched from label to label.

opening up about this would probably only make it worse because of all of the above.

that summer, too, was spent contemplating my seemingly worthless existence

and the arise of an wolf in sheeps' clothing

who would go on to ask me why i was still alive

just months later.

not till two years later did i realise my past struggles had amounted to nothing.