This a poem about survival. This is for all the half written suicide notes, the ones in my journals, the ones in my notes, the ones I wrote in my head.
This is for all the cars I didn’t throw myself in front of. For the train tracks I didn’t stand on. All the ledges I didn’t jump off of. For those months when I couldn’t cry, so I just had to lie there on the floor and wish for the drought to end. This is for those few nights I’ve been held by another but mostly for the nights where I held myself.
For when I stopped my own head from shaking. I stopped my own chest from heaving. My own lungs from hyperventilating. My own hands from strangling my neck. For all the times I didn’t say anything because I think I’ve had my words taken from me from too many people who tell me that I talk too much. That I’m too loud. That I am too needy. That I am too clingy. That I am too human. So I killed the human and became so empty I forgot how to do the most human things.
Like eat and move and breathe and love. Love myself. This is for running away. For all those times I wanted to keep going until my body gave out. For running away from the four walls and bedroom ceiling. For all the people who tried and all the people who didn’t. For all the days I didn’t want to get up and go out. For the last day of my job when I almost did it. For the first night of summer camp when I almost did it. For the nights when I almost did it. But I didn’t. For the anxiety attacks that I started having again. For the dissociation that makes me doubt if I’m even really here.
For all the times I didn’t want to be here. For the scars that have faded. For the relapses I didn’t want to go through. For the times I wanted to rip my skin, run myself through, and throw myself into walls. For the people who hurt me. For the people who abused me. For all the time I didn’t know I had been abused because no one tells you that it isn’t always bruising. It isn’t always visible. For all those times I had to save myself. For the days when someone else had to help. For when I said “I want to kill myself.” outloud for the first time and burst into tears.
For when I got too high and thought my face was melting off. For all the apologies I didn’t have to make. For all the apologies I wasted. For all the apologies that meant other things. For the healing. For the hoping. For the wishing. For the loving. For the nights I don’t wake up alone. For the people who love me. For the coffee in the morning. For the sunrise. When the drought ended and I could cry again. I could feel again. For the days I can’t feel but know I can and I will again.
This is a poem about recovery.
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