Memos from the psych ward III

They said 13 is too young to want to die.

They scolded 13, is way too young attempt to end one's life.

But it was at five years old, I learned a thing or two about self hatred.

at 12 I dreaded my existence;

I had started looking for life's exit.

At 7, I wanted to escape my body and float,

At seventeen, I decided that my existence is chronic;

I am but, a collections of symptoms;

of a progressing disease that keeps to grow in me.

I am but, a collections of broken dreams

and shattered hopes with unshed tears.

I am my mother's pain and my father's spite.

At 15, I learned ways to punish myself;

made my arm a canvas of confession,

wrote poetry from my blood proxy for my hatred,

I grew fond of the feeling of starvation.

in times of loneliness, I befriended the sharp razor,

I assured myself:

surely it can't cut deeper than their words.

And as depression held on tight,

as anxiety tightened it's grip around my throat,

I found a way to breath through drawing lines on what ever flesh of mine, I can find.

I still can feel my dead heart rotting.

but it still keeps beating,

still keeps bleeding,

I am now 22, clueless and lost.

surprised and in question how I had lived this long,

I nurse my misery ,water it with my tears

dress my wounds with my shame,

and fight my pain with more pain,

it would be easier to end it all.

Much simpler to do it once more.

"Suicide is painless, it brings out many changes, and I can take it or leave if I please"

and the only thing I'd miss would be my mother's smile.