literature

3.29.14

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Published: May 17, 2014

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Literature Text

She’s hanging out her window at three A.M., watching ashes dance out of reach on the wind
From a cigarette that she wishes she didn’t feel as if she needed
In order to stop her from doing something even more self destructive,
And she is invisible.

I wish I were as close to her as that stream of nicotine is;
I wish I could stain her brain with vibrant colors and thoughts,
I wish I could convince her that she’s better than this. Her body is littered in scars.
Her head is loud and crowded with every name and insult she’s ever had directed at her,
And there isn’t a name that they can call her that she hasn’t already called herself.

She stands rebellious and strong against her tormentors, yells at them to say it again,
Because they’ve almost got her convinced – But inside, she’s crumbling down
Another inch every fucking second. She’s stopped eating again.
She doesn’t do it on purpose; it’s just hard to feel hungry when the first thought
On your mind when you wake up is your own death; She’s anxious and restless
And needs to get out of this poisonous place before she’s buried in it.

She feels all alone. They keep telling her that she’s only got two more years,
But to her, two more years is like a life sentence, and since when did 25 to life
Become more terrifying than being sentenced to death? When did the thought of
Dying become a comfort to a fourteen year old girl; Why should she feel like smiling
At the thought of holding hands with razor blades and chasing a bottle of sleeping pills
With every ounce of alcohol within her reach? They can’t figure out what’s wrong with her.

And to her, that’s perfectly okay, because she thinks that maybe they’ll finally see
That she’s just a lost cause and give up on trying to make her happy.
She doesn’t think she deserves to be alive. She’s tried to bleed the toxin out so many times
That she’s lost track of whether her blood runs red because everyone’s always angry with her
Or if it runs blue because she’s so damn sad. She always theorized that---

Because blue and red make purple, that’s why bruises always looked so good on her;
She was so mixed up with every color of the rainbow that by the time she got to the end,
Her pot of gold had been washed away and replaced with grey and black;
Her eyes are always so dull and so far away these days. I don’t think anything
Could call her back. The only sounds she ever makes are heavy sighs and the telltale
Pre-cry breaths, but she’s run out of tears to cry. She’s just biding her time,
An old lost soul in need of a trip back home; she’s never really felt okay to begin with.

And I don’t blame her. I’ve seen the dark rings under her eyes from every sleepless night
She’s struggled to survive, the voices in her head screaming at her to just give up and
Die. She is convinced that help is not on the way and the only way out is through suicide.
And I wish she didn’t feel so hopeless, but I think she’s made up her mind;
And if there’s a way to change it then I haven’t found it yet, but I’m still willing to try.

Because she’s still hanging out her window at three A.M. on summer nights,
Watching smoke float away to the sky, trying to become so light that she might be able
To follow it sometime. And as long as she’s still alive, I’ve still got a chance to convince her
That it does get better, and that she hasn’t survived four suicide attempts for absolutely
No reason at all. I’ve still got a chance to pick her up when she falls, and I’ll be ready,

Waiting under her window for her head to finally hit her pillow, to whisper in her ear,
“Remember why you’re here,” because the subconscious mind is more easily influenced
Than the conscious, suppressed and listless one is. This is to every girl who’s ever felt
Like I did back then. You’re going to get a little older and break away from your prisons
And you’re going to be amazing, dear. So please. Don’t give up on yourself just yet.

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3.29.14

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