On my darkest of nights,
I sit and I think
about everything
that's gone wrong
or could,
about who will die next,
my mom or my brother,
about how soon it will be
until I am all alone.
On my darkest of nights,
I don't know what coping is.
I don't.
I silently suffer and I sleep,
and sometimes I don't sleep.
Sometimes I think about dying,
just falling asleep
and staying asleep
forever.
I just think.
Or wish that my mom
had gotten an abortion
February of 1998.
I just wish.
On my darkest of nights,
I wonder why anyone puts up with me,
why they still let me around them,
why they don't tell me how much
they hate me,
how much I annoy them,
irritate them?
I wonder.
On my darkest of nights,
I cry.
I just
cry.
YOU ARE READING
The Things We Don't Talk About
Poetry***Trigger Warning: Mental health, mental illness, eating disorders, suicidal ideation, self-harm*** A collection of poems delving into the dark side of the human experience. From high highs to low lows, emotion can be intense. And this collection s...
