It's the third time this year that I've seriously considered ending my own life. The word for it sickens me, because I can never say it without thinking of the view from the top of a building before I fall. I think of ways I can go, each more tragic than the last. I consider all things, like the day and date and whether I'll be able to hug my friends one last time.
The first time I thought about it (July 2015), I wrote my first ever note. It was adressed to my mother, and I kept it hidden inside a notebook. By the second time (November 2015), I wrote all my letters for my friends, both real friends and internet friends. I wrote myself a poem, said my final goodbyes. I know it's macabre, but I still have those letters. Last night was the third time. I have the letters left from the first and second time, and I could just edit them and leave. I'm fully capable of doing it, and lately everything's been getting worse. I've had four panic attacks in the span of two days, and though it's nearly Christmas I don't feel it. I don't feel anything anymore, to be honest. Everything I touch feels distant, and though I register it, it doesn't feel like it's there. I grow further away from my family, and it's like every second I spend with them, I loathe them more.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
