I want to be gone.
I want to disappear—
from this world,
from myself.
I want to step out of my skin,
but I can't.
So instead,
I take the knife to my wrists,
and with every cut,
I'm one step closer
to the oblivion
I so desperately want
to be sucked into.
I'm tired of trying.
Tired of waking up,
feeling the same emptiness.
Where I don't control my emotions—
they control me.
They control my life.
So I sit back,
watch it all unfold,
and let it burn to the ground.
Because why the hell not?
My whole life has been painful.
And I can't seem to remember
a single happy moment.
Not one.
And that…
that's just depressing.
Maybe if I were normal,
things would be different.
Maybe if my parents
hadn't abused me,
hadn't poisoned the place I was raised in,
maybe I'd be okay.
Maybe I'd still be with them.
Maybe I wouldn't be struggling
to survive on my own.
Maybe I wouldn't feel
so suicidal.
Just—maybe.
But that's not the case.
Instead,
I'm infested
with mental illnesses:
Borderline.
Bipolar II.
Depression.
And God knows what else.
So I suffer in silence.
Because no matter how many times
I try to express myself—
to say what I feel,
what I think—
no one understands.
Not the pain
I carry every day.
Not the battle
just to breathe.
And maybe you'll say:
"Everyone goes through this."
"Some people have it worse."
Yeah. Maybe that's true.
But I'm not talking about everyone.
I'm talking about me.
Right now.
This pain.
And once again,
you've invalidated it.
So when I end it—
when that last cut
goes just a little too deep,
and it's too late—
Don't cry.
Don't say:
"I didn't know."
"I wish I did more."
Keep it to yourself.
Because I told you.
I expressed myself—
to you,
to the world,
in my poetry.
In every way I knew how.
Because a part of me
wasn't ready to let go.
Until I convinced myself
it was for the best.