September 27, 2014 11:38 PM
Having thoughts of suicide is an under-statement.
Having the urge to take my life is an over-statement.
Telling others that I am suicidal is a selfish-statement.
I am suicidal, this is the accurate-statement.
If I cannot be honest you, then why should I be honest with me?
Here I am sitting in a dark corner
Hovering my life into one quiet shell.
The only light shining in the midst of the room
Is the glow from my cold heart.
Slowing frosting over the blemishes
I want to leave behind due to my depressive manic episodes.
I wrap my life-less hands around my circular body
In hopes to suffocate the inner life
Pumping through my fragile veins.
I touch the scars, the left behind marks
Of the single headed darts which you threw
At my mistakes,
My inner shyness,
My devoted love for you.
I stand up to rejection
I stand up to instability
I stand up to fear
But, for some odd reason
I just cannot seem to stand up for me.
This world is swallowing my flesh piece by piece.
Inch by inch
Life by life.
I am suicidal, this is my statement.
I’ve lost my battle
I’ve lost the fight
I’m in a constant struggle with thoughts, feelings, and everything in sight
And all I want to do is take action.
Suicide is not so taboo to me anymore
Suicide is my buggaboo who keeps me warm at night.
Yes, I dressed it as a person
I even dressed it up as my lover.
Bear with me and my rapid thoughts
As I shed the true defining light upon
The seven letter that scares the living daylights out of humans: