What's Going To Kill Me

I wish I could say my depression was something like you see in movies. 

The kind where the beautiful girl sits alone and cries while everyone around her is puzzled because they all know how beautiful and important she is. 

Where all of her pain and tears become laughter and smiles. 

Tragic, but curable.

 My depression is ugly and hopeless.

 It's sitting awake in a dark room at four in the morning with nothing but your thoughts while the walls close in on you.

 It's crying in the shower so no one knows or asks questions.

 It's hearing "just be happy" like you haven't tried. 

It's breathing a sigh of relief when the blade finally slides across unmarked patches of skin and watching beads of blood bloom in a perfect little line. 

It's finding comfort in the darkest of moments because maybe, just maybe, someone else will feel the way you do for a while. 

It's living everyday in a hell you can't escape because your own mind created it. 

My depression isn't the kind of thing that people romanticize. 

It's the kind of thing that if others could experience it would wish I were gone just as much as I do.

It's what's destroyed me.

It's what's going to kill me.

Death Wish

I've never thought very highly of death

It's so permanent and uncertain.

But I find myself thinking of it more and more often

I fantasize about how my blood would feel slipping out of my veins

Across my pale, scarred skin.

About how my vision would pulse in and out with my ever fading heartbeat

How I might finally feel relief,

How I might feel worse,

How I might not feel anything at all.

And all of those possibilities terrify me, yet I can't help but romanticize it.

I want to experience a moment where I'm consumed by only one thought.

One moment that is purely about me and how I feel.

Not about tomorrow's problems,

Not someone else and their feelings.
Just me and whatever death holds...

One Man's Struggle, One Girl's Downfall

I've never had many regrets in life. I like to look at the things that happen as building blocks. All interlocking to make me the person I'm meant to be, but there is one night that, looking back, I would change everything. And that was the night that I saved my rapist's life... At the time I didn't know who he would turn out to be. It felt right, like the only choice. But now that I know what his part in my story is, I desperately want to edit him out. You see I could have altered my entire course. Avoided one of the most traumatic events of my life, and maybe even the severe depression I occasionally suffer from. But I chose to help and offer solace to a lost soul... I never thought I could be capable of such thoughts, but as it turns out, I wish I would have let the fucker die...

Me And My Fucked Up Psyche

Night comes and the quiet and calm of darkness falls over the whole of the city. Everyone settling down with their families to the normalcy of a life well lived, having come so far unscathed. Everyone but me and my fucked up psyche. Instead of sweet dreams and goodnight kisses, I experience that night again and again. My mind falling victim to the memories of abandoned parking lots and inconveniently placed streetlights in a city so far spread that no one would ever hear you scream for help. See, I learned to cope with the pain and to repress even the darkest of memories. I can fake happiness as if I hadn't lost my innocence all too young and been forced into a life of secrets that no one should ever have to keep. Secrets that I never wanted. But eventually, one, two, ten months later my life finally seemed to be getting better. And then cue the lights and raise the curtains because your goddamn audacity is entering stage left. You don't realize this, but you fucked up my chances at ever leading a normal life. I will never get my round of applause as the lights dim and the curtain is closed on this fucked up play we call Life. My beautiful moments from that point forward forever tainted by your fingertips sliding over my body and all because I wasn't "convincing" when I told you to stop. When I shoved you off of me. When I pulled away to get you out of me. I wasn't convincing when tears were streaming down my fucking face and blood down my legs. And days later, I wasn't brave enough to tell anyone what you had done. So while the soft spoken reassurances in the small hours of the morning that none of it was my fault is sweet, it's complete and utter bullshit. You see, I could have stopped you and put my mind to rest knowing you couldn't hurt me again, but I didn't. I lacked the courage to bare my pain. To admit that I had made a bad decision that led to worse consequences. I didn't want to tell anyone that one night when I was 17 I was stripped and held down in the back of a car, left to endure the twisted imagination of an insane person. So now I sit awake at night while tears stain my cheeks waiting for day to break and release me from the prison of my own mind where terrible thoughts are chipping away at their cells searching for weak spots; waiting to destroy me.

Daring

How dare I have the audacity to think the things I did.

How dare I tell you the things I did.

How dare I let you hold my heart as if you cared for it.

How dare I feel the things I did.

How dare I let you do the things you did with me.

How dare I believe you were anything different than anyone else.

How fucking dare I.

Don't Forget

Stop should never be a negotiation.