Thoughts

I’m a virus.

A plague to the system.

Something to be dissected, analysed and treated.

I’ve grown weaker and weaker.

Yet untreatable.

I remain a problem.

Like a child sat on the naughty step, being conditioned to behave as they tell me.

If I act out, they’ll ignore me.

If they ignore me long enough maybe I’ll cure myself.

Maybe I’ll grow tired of my stupid games.

Maybe I’ll learn to be an adult,

and learn to view the world like one.

I’ll stop rolling the dice playing suicide

and learn to curl up and die on my own.

I’ll stop using my imagination.

I’ll look at cold, hard facts.

Stop holding on to hope.

Like a child flying a kite.

I’ll watch it slip through my fingers,

and tell them I couldn’t hold on anymore.

It was unavoidable.

Like all those tragic suicides in the headlines.

THEY COULDN’T HAVE DONE MORE.

UNAVOIDABLE.

My parents can’t afford a funeral.

So maybe I’ll die at sea,

sink down and let the waves roll over me.

Maybe they’ll disown me,

let the state dig my grave.

They couldn’t clean up their mess before,

so let the state pay.

If they ignore me long enough I’ll learn never to speak.

I know they see me as a manipulator,

my dialect of depression and suicide just a tool in my trade.

Dirty, dirty words.
Attention seeker.
What is wrong with me?

My voice keeps hammering,
crafting to the same tune.
I WANT TO DIE.

“Okay, so that’s today, last week, last month, last year?
Is there anything actually new dear?”

It’s not enough.

S.O.S.

Send help,

save me.

Look at me,

pathetic baby.

Crying over the same thing again and again.

I’m shouting, I’m screaming.

Pinch me,
am I dreaming?

I don’t know what’s worse,

the nightmares or breathing.

Real life feels like a dream,

but the dreams have me screaming.

But what do I want?

Because it isn’t their attention.

I’m sad, did I mention?

I’m just looking for a way to not be.

They fill me with lies and truths I can’t bear to hear.

I don’t really want to die.

I just want to make a mess somebody else will clear up.

It’s just who I’ve grown to be.

Are they right?

Am I an awful person?

I never wanted their attention.

I’m trying to clear it up,
I’m bleaching the tiles in my mind’s bathroom.
There’s blood on the walls and vomit in the sink.

I thought it was the mess I made,

but the walls are bleeding.

Shit, there’s even blood dripping from the ceiling.

The. Walls. Are. Screaming.

I don’t even know how my heart is still beating.

Their words, they chase me.

Am I still breathing?

I open the medicine cabinet and I take everything I find.

‘This time, the choice is mine’.




Don't worry it's a metaphor.