A sigh I let out, a breath I take in—
Yet nothing makes me feel alive.
Nothing makes me wonder If I ever faded, would I be missed?
My wrists and thighs tell stories of the past,
Of times I felt like nothing more than trash.
As if my beating heart wasn’t proof of a story,
But an author pushed to the edge of writing.
Every other word was:
\"Sorry.\"
\"It’s my fault.\"
\"I don’t know.\"
Because I didn’t want to be wrong.
Too scared to speak up, afraid to be pushed away.
Afraid to become boring—like I did when I was open,
Written by myself, not by others and their expectations.
The red ink I used when I felt so low—
Its supply came from nothing but my own.
Some would say that’s sick, that I need help.
But have you ever rubbed your wrist until it bled, and ignored it?
Picked at your thighs until they bruised?
Written on your skin every insult you’ve ever called yourself
Because you knew others were thinking it?
I’m a writer tired of writing,
And my book hasn’t even hit chapter 16 yet.
I have hope that I’ll get better,
But when you’re so down—
When you feel cuffed to the end—
You wonder if fading would be easier.
Because nothing gives you the sigh of being alive.
And no one picks up your book with the intention
Of reading it cover to cover, again and again.
When too many read only your prologue,
You start to feel like a boring, basic dust collector—
A page that’s been ripped,
Because it was the one that said:
The End.