We cut ourselves to make it fake
To hide the pain that we can’t take.
We drop the blade, colored red,
And bang the wall against our head.
We see the floor and then the sky ,
And wish to Hell that we could die.
Everything’s white around the edges,
Then it fades to little wedges.
While we dream, curled up on the floor
With a hand stretched for the door,
We see our past and what it’s like,
Then wish we’d fall atop a spike.
When we wake with eyes so sore
We then decide we can’t take anymore.
We seek our help from friends, so rare,
Only to see there’s no one there.
~1999 (age 15/16)
I don’t like that first line, it doesn’t make very much sense, but for some reason can’t bring myself to change it.
I’ve never attempted suicide on a legitimate scale. I’ve contemplated suicide, spent hours listing reasons why it was and wasn’t the best choice for me and always decided in the end that my mother was not strong enough to survive the loss of a child. I spent my entire teenage years learning how to live with a deep, empty pit inside of me. I’ve fought the urge to jump into that hole multiple times. One of my escapes was writing poetry. This particular poem was reported by a poetry forum to my high school guidance counsellor. It was embarrassing and I never shared anything after that.