I look down at my hands. I see smears of blood
From the years of pain I caused and pain from others
They didn’t help me
Not one bit
I look down at my body, scars from the words pelted at me.
I’m scared to see my arms
Covered by long sleeves
In the sweltering heat of summer
A mess of bracelets
And neat dark red marks
Some lighter than others
Some barely there
Some as noticeable as a train speeding towards you
Why didn’t you notice sooner?
You could’ve stopped this
The knife nearly into my chest
You had the power to stop it
But you just made it worse
I am too tired to fight.
My bones are growing heavy now,
my eyes are drifting shut.
My arms are too sore to hold the gun.
My fingers refuse to pull the trigger.
I want to be a soldier,
but I am too weary for this war.
I’m sick of people telling me it’s just a “get over it” situation. Fuck you. You don’t know what it’s like in my head.
WAKE. THE. FUCK. UP.
- DEPRESSION IS NOT SPECIAL
- ANXIETY IS NOT CUTE
- SELF HARM SCARS ARE NOT BEAUTIFUL
- SUICIDE IS NOT POETIC
- EATING DISORDERS ARE NOT GLAMOROUS
- MENTAL ILLNESSES ARE NOT ROMANTIC SO STOP TREATING THEM THAT WAY