I want the suffering to end.
I'm sick of the flashbacks,
the cutting,
the pain.
Everything that life brings me,
I'm ******* tired of.

I want the hallucinations to go away.
It scares me to hear someone call my name,
or to see someone stand by my door,
only to realize there's no one there.
It almost makes me sad
that my brain made it up
and none of it was real.

I want to feel free again.
I'm done sleeping on my parents' bedroom floor,
and being consumed by an addiction to self destruction.
I want to be free of thoughts and compulsions to harm myself in any way I can.

I want it all to end.

Warning- This poem is about suicide and may be triggering to some.

I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.
I don't know if you will,
or if you even care about me at all,
but if you do,
I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.

I hope you'll come to my funeral.
Maybe you'll bring me flowers,
or cry while I lay lifeless in my casket.
I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.

If I survive I hope you'll visit me in the hospital.
Even though you've really hurt me,
it would be nice to see your face again,
so I know that you care.
I hope you'll miss me when I'm gone.

Sometimes I feel magnificent.
I feel like I’m unstoppable,
a force to be reckoned with.
My actions aren’t well thought through,
with suicide attempts on impulse.
I’m running off of a few hours of sleep,
and I feel like nothing can knock me down.
I love myself,
and I love the world.

But then comes the lows.
I can’t get out of my bed,
and my pillowcases are stained with blood, mascara, and tears.
I claim I’ve never felt this awful,
which I’ve said the last five times this happened.
I sleep for too long,
and I feel inferior.
I hate myself,
and I hate the world.

Now I write my notes,
apologies for hurting everyone.
And then the good comes again,
but I only wait
for this ******* cycle to repeat again.

Warning-This poem contains themes of self harm and suicide.

What will it take for you to finally care?
You never cared to ask how I was doing,
and then when I ended up in the hospital,
you were all over me,
asking questions,
and telling me I was going to be okay.

Will it take my suicide for you to admit you were wrong for what you did to me?
You'll keep lying to our friends
until the day I die.
Then, you'll feel too guilty to keep this lie going,
and you'll cave in.

Will it take me carving deep wounds into my skin for you to say you're sorry?
When you see the cuts
I know you'll ask me if I'm okay because your mom is worried about me.
You know I'm not,
but we're both liars here.

Now I lay here,
in my bed, covered in my own blood,
wondering
what will it take
for you to listen to my problems,
for you to apologize,
for you to care,
for you to realize you were a terrible friend to me.

I wanted to be loved.
I didn't want romantic relationships,
but I wanted to feel nurtured,
cared for.

I knew I was a lesbian,
but I still dated men.
I wanted validation.
I wanted to feel small again.
I wanted to feel important.

I hid my true self so more people would like me.
I didn't share my interests in worries of being made fun of,
and I didn't share what I was going through.
I didn't want people to think I was weird.

Now I show my true self.
Not as many people like me,
but that's alright.
I don't like them either.

Warning-This poem contains themes of suicide, self harm, and depression.

My first depressive episode was last May.
My friend was on the phone with my boyfriend, and I worried he wouldn't date me for much longer.
I didn't even like boys,
I just wanted to feel loved.
I sat in the rain and thought about killing myself.
"What is happening to me?" I asked myself.
Maybe it was jealousy,
Maybe it was my period.
But I knew there was something wrong.

I had another depressive episode in August.
I couldn't stop thinking about self harm and suicide.
I tried to enjoy my vacation in Washington at my grandma's house,
but it was hard to enjoy while I was silently suffering.
I relapsed on self harm after that.

It happened again in November.
I filed a suicide report on myself at school.
Even though I had a school play that day, and a vacation later in the week, I couldn't bring myself to want to live.
I was pulled into the counselor's office at school and got sent home.
I cried on the couch when I got back home.

Again in December.
I was used to this by now.
I banged my head on my bedframe because I so desperately wanted to punish myself.
I was stuck in flashbacks of my trauma.
"If this is my life," I'd tell myself,
"then I don't want to be here anymore."
I cut myself on the train tracks and visualized myself getting hit by a train.
What made it worse was being cheated on.

The worst of my depression was in February.
I was hospitalized on Valentine's Day.
I had a plan to run in front of a train on the 15th,
and I had to sleep on my parents' floor so I wouldn't hurt myself
until I was admitted to a residential treatment center.

Now, I'm on better medications to help with my depressive episodes.
I'm still not perfect,
and not necessarily thriving or doing well,
but I'm doing better.
Thankfully.

I know how it feels to be invalidated.
The words, "try harder," and "just stop" replay in my head like a movie.
I would take that advice if it was that easy,
but that's not how my brain works.

I know how it feels to feel like an anomaly.
I grew up different from all the kids, I was weird and I had scars on my arms and legs.
If it were possible, I'd be normal,
but there's no fun in being like everyone else.

I know how it feels to be minimized.
We were both so young that it "doesn't matter."
I wish I could let it go,
but I won't forgive her until I get an apology.

I know how it feels to not be trusted.
I was too unsafe to be by myself.
I slept on my parents' floor in their bedroom, sometimes for several days.
but I don't know when I'll be able to regain that trust.

Warning- This poem contains graphic descriptions of suicide attempts and self harm.

I remember the days with my hands wrapped around my throat.
My wrists were cut up and my eyes were filled with tears.
I was only ten.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember thinking I was better off dead.
I'd been almost a year since I'd cut myself,
but I sat thinking about suicide in the rain.
I was only eleven.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember taking a ton of pills before school and sitting by the door with a belt around my neck.
I couldn't stop cutting, but I was feeling happy.
I was only twelve.
I never want to feel that way again.

I remember writing this poem.
I'd finished writing all of my suicide notes, with a plan to **** myself on a random Sunday.
I'd given up cutting and was on three antipsychotics.
I was only thirteen.
I'm ready to never feel this way again.

Warning-This poem contains graphic themes of suicide and self harm.

I find comfort in suicide.
When it's all your mind can think of,
it brings you comfort,
since it's just what you're used to.

I find comfort in train tracks.
It's the perfect place to slit my wrists with a razor,
while imagining getting run over by an oncoming train.
I can visualize my guts and blood covering the tracks,
as I walk along and can only hope death comes for me soon.

I find comfort in belts,
such a simple thing that's a problem for me,
because of the twelve times I've tried to hang myself with one.
Now I can't even close my doors.
"Can you keep yourself safe, Avery?"

I find comfort with my hands around my throat.
I gasp for air as I wait for my vision to go back.
My face turns purple.

I find comfort in the things you'd think would scare me.
Suicide brings me the relief that nothing else has given me.
Maybe if you knew what I've gone through,
you'd understand too.

Warning- This poem contains themes of depression and suicide.
Note-This is an older poem so it is a bit different from my other ones.

The skies are gray,
The curtains are closed.
My neighbors probably think
that no one is home.

I can't say I disagree,
I don't feel like me.
Maybe tomorrow
I won't be here anymore.

Sometimes I want to disappear,
So I just lay here,
practically in a sea of my own tears.
Thoughts cloud my mind,
Darker than the sky,
Cries and telling lies,
No one knows what's wrong with me.

I don't go to the doctor's,
But maybe soon the morgue.
Call the coroner,
Maybe they'll know what's wrong.

I think I know what's going on
But I don't think I can leave
This bottomless pit that has swallowed me.

Time feels empty,
but my mind is the opposite.
My heart is sinking
like an anchor on a boat in the sea.

My face is drenched with waterfalls;
Tears leave my eyes at a timeless pace.
All of this crying has stained my face.
My pillowcases are wet with sorrow.

I don't know how to live with such pain,
Yet I've gone so long.
But it's taken my life away,
It won't be long till I'm finally gone.

There's nothing more to say except the color gray.
It stains the day
And pains the way
That I can see colors.
It's been three years since I have seen sunshine,
A sweeter time.

When I was innocent,
And time came and went,
I could count seconds and minutes,
I felt I had no limits.
I could fly.

Now,
no matter how hard I try,
I am unable to fly.
My wings have been disabled,
Crooked with the passing of time
That of which I cannot sense.

I feel paralyzed
Like I'm trapped inside of an electric fence,
one with barbed wire that stabs my hands.
It makes me so tired to feel so trapped and unable to speak.

My body has broken down.
I've become weak.
All I can hope
is that the color gray
may not last another day.

Warning-This poem contains themes of self harm.
Note-This is one of my old poems so it is a bit different from my other ones.

Sometimes I hate the memories.
The fresh wounds are red and the scars are white.
They remain to remind me
How painful life used to be.

I can visualize the ****** razor in my hand,
And I can count scars,
One by one.
I can taste the metallic blood that's running down my aching wrist,
Running down my arm in watercolor strokes of maroon.

I can't keep my hands off blades,
And throughout my life I've cut away,
Just because I can't handle pain,
So I put it in a different form.
Where the memories and scars of it will remain.
I can feel the pain and imagine the blood stains on white carpets,
Trying to scrub away the mess of the pain I've caused myself.

Even though there's no longer pain,
The scars still remain.
And the memories,
The cuts,
Will never truly fade.

"This was all in God's plan."
But why did he plan for me to suffer so much?
I would've understood this better if I was older,
or if less had happened to me,
But your God isn't going to save me,

"God gives His hardest battles to the strongest soldiers."
But I'm not a soldier,
I was only a little kid.
Your God shouldn't expect me to struggle at such a young age.

"God loves you."
If God loved me he wouldn't have made me go through all of this ****.
And I'm not saying that life should be painless,
But it's cruel to give a little girl this much pain.
If your God loved me my life wouldn't be like this.

Warning- This poem contains themes of self harm, suicide, ****** abuse, and more. If these topics trigger you I suggest you don't read this poem.

"I think your scars are beautiful." Said no one.
I carry the traumas of my past on my wrists and my thighs.
I feel like a gross monster.
Every day when I look in the mirror, I'm reminded of my pattern of self destruction and self hatred.

But I don't only have scars on the outside.
Open wounds exist inside me from the events of my past.
The memories replay in my mind like a movie theater,
and I watch myself suffer over and over again.
I see myself getting sexually abused, watching my parents drunken accidents.
I see ten year old me getting shoved into a countertop and I can still feel the physical and emotional pain.

Sometimes I want to slit my throat and cut up my wrists so I can be done with the **** this world has to offer,
But I know I can't go out like this, not so young.
I know that I have things to accomplish,
and I have goals to reach,
But it's so hard carrying this weight on my shoulders all the time.
I don't believe I deserve this.

Warning: This poem contains subjects of ****/SA and may be triggering.


I can't believe the irony.
You claim to disagree with **** and ****** harassment,
But you speak no remorse for your actions of abuse against me.
You say what you did wasn't bad, but you weren't the one being ****** over day by day by the girl who was supposed to be my best friend.
You weren't the one being manipulated,
Yet you play the victim and talk about how you were molested later in life
But you never cared to take accountability and apologize to the person you put through the same misery you ended up going through after the fact,
And you never cared to think about what you did to me and what you put me through.

I know and understand that we were young,
But that's not an excuse to say you did nothing wrong.
You didn't just do this when we were little,
This wasn't just a one time thing,
You did it over and over again for four years.
It was a recurring event that happened every time you begged to come over, or begged for my mom to let us sleepover
So you could manipulate me and ***** me over even more, making me more trapped in your web of lies and deception.

I find it stupid that everyone seems to take your side instead of listening to what I have to say about this situation,
When there is proof of you being a narcissistic liar and everyone knows it,
Yet they can't believe a word I say no matter how much I say it.

I don't even mean for this to ruin your life,
even though you ruined mine.
You left me with flashbacks and self destructive patterns I've become used to.
You made my life a living hell.

I've heard that you think my scars are ugly,
But they aren't nearly as ugly as your hideous personality and your manipulative tendencies.
When I see your face or think of you it makes me sick,
Almost as sick as I feel remembering what you put me through,
Like making me touch you, making me make out with you.
I never even wanted to do that in the first place,
I knew we were too young,
I wonder what everyone would think if they knew you were a sexually abusive *****.