trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, numbness
everything is numb as in i think i have frostbite and i can push away your hands they make my skin crawl. and also the more i think about it the further i fall down and the more i think about the angrier i get about it. and the angrier i get the more i think about doing it doing it doing it and it’s amazing how the noise can seem so silent and i hate the sound of my name and when you speak it. i want to slap you but i don’t and i do please hold onto me. please grab my brain out of my skull, i’m scared of what i might do. my heart is one massive downward smile my therapist tells me i’m not articulating myself like i do usually, and she tells me to write poetry about what i best describe as the empty. so i’ll write about it now. i’ll tell you that right now, it feels like the empty is killing me. the empty is where they hollowed out love and trust and company. the empty is where my heart used to be. the empty looks like a scar, but there’s a sinkhole below the closure rested neatly about this graveyard. the empty never stops screaming for trust, and love, and okay. and the empty knows that everything it is fed will be taken away eventually and the second i disagree with you you’ll leave me and the second i let you disagree with me you’ll run away. and it’s hard to want to feel alive when you’ve handed your heart to someone else and no one even questions it, and everyone around you but your friends encourages it, and when i see happy people i see broken things waiting to happen i see everything i could never have i see the self-hatred and i’m not sure if i can even begin to classify this as anything other than the darkness i can see even before i close my eyes and my eyes are closing and i can’t take the weight of these feelings they are lead they are titanium they are nuclear waste ripping through my bones and i am broken and i’m so weak and i’m so useless and it’s not worth hanging in there and why the hell not and why the hell and no one will never listen and i’m laughing at myself because i can recall the inky darkness of my heart when it’s numbed out it only takes me a second to summon the endless pool of sadness that’s sort of usually there in the background and i still don’t know whether or not to call this depression. but it is. because i fight it, and most days the truth is i’m pretty good at living with it as in living without it and i sort of box it in storage as best i can because i don’t know how else to deal with a grenade and i know this is a stupid reason to but it’s been feeling so heavy of late and when i put one foot in front of the other, i still can’t feel it in my chest tell you why it matters anymore
author’s note: this poem has been written from personal experience. to be honest, i don’t know if i’m depressed or not. i do know that it feels often like there’s a box of sadness inside me, almost. and sometimes it explodes. and then there’s nothing left. i guess that’s the place i wrote this poem from. i don’t have answers. i can’t say that i don’t still feel suicidal sometimes. but i do know that talking about it helps, and that healing is probably the hardest and most brave thing a person can do. i do know that if it helps at all, i want more than anything for you to keep trying, and keep being alive, whatever that means to you. and i’ll keep trying with you, all right?
PS- if you need to talk to anyone, find a crisis line in your area here.
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