Suicidal- that feeling you get when there’s no hope left in your life.
There’s too much sadness and pain, too much stress. Coming to the end of each day is just another battle. Getting out of bed in the morning is like Batman fighting Bane.
No one hears you. You bottle up all these emotions, a cry for help is choked up by your mind, but it still wells up deep in your heart. Sometimes it’s hard to be angry, other times you can’t stop from feeling hate. Towards the world and eveyone in it, because things get so bad but still you refuse to cry or show that you’re frustrated. So intruding thoughts fly by, you think it’s better to just die.
But suicide is probably one of the hardest things a person can commit to. Because even if no one will miss you, there still might be a piece inside of you that says you’ll miss yourself.
Suicide is difficult and different. Full of pain. Full of thoughts and thinking, racing, endlessly across your mind. Is the need to end it all really going to beat your need for more time?
And worst of all, how? How are you going to die? If you get to decide, then how will you go, and why?
Off a bridge, into the rocky waters down below, because it looks most peaceful? Is there sentiment there?
In the bathtub with red streaks adorning your wrists, a crimson flow, because so many say it’ll be like poetry. But they don’t know how hard that is. To put a blade to your wrist. You want to take comfort in it, comfort in that pain, but it’s just too hard. Too difficult and you can’t cut deep enough.
Pills. Is there really solice there? Solice to an end filled by sleep? Too many things could go wrong. You could throw the pills back up, choke on your own vomit. Is that really how you want to go? Or even worse, turn yellow after you fail to die, but your liver keeps on processing all those pills. Get sicker and sicker and be sucked into having to tell the truth or lie, wishing you’d swallowed more pills than you did.
Maybe you can find somewhere beautiful. A place with a view. A tall office building off main street or even a cliff. Would that be enough to end the pain? When the last thing you’ll hear is the splat of your brain on hot concrete.
Maybe a noose. Let yourself be hung up like a plucked goose, just tie the rope tight and jump from a height. But if your neck doesn’t break on impact? You’ll kick and flail and cry, froffing at the mouth as you struggle to breathe. Until you turn blue and every last twitch is drawn from your hanging limbs.
That’s suicide.
Poetry
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I think about how I’m going to die a lot. But the pain of death is too much to even comprehend. And how much it would hurt other people who did nothing wrong, like my mom.