Lead in the Veins

I hear it all the time.

“Poor thing, with those scars on their wrists. They must be so lost.”

“What a freak, covering up their cuts. Daddy must be mean to them or something.”

“They’re too young to know what depression is.”

“What on earth could they be going through?”

“What compels them to hurt themselves, aren’t they going through enough pain?”

I hear this, and it’s all I can do to shake my head.

To look at the poor soul in empathy.

Because I know.

I’ve felt it.

The lead in my veins, the weight that simply comes with living each second.

It hits me even now, in this stage of my life. The desire to feel any other kind of pain than this excruciating numbness.

To finally get the burning poison out of my veins so that I can get out of bed and move on with my day.

But this seemingly counteractive method of healing comes with its scars.

And sometimes, it is the only method of healing people can get.

And I know.

No matter how hard I want to help, it is all I can do to nod in solidarity.

Because I’ve felt it.

I’ve lived with it.

I’ve lived past it.

And I pray that they can live past it too.


Worthless. Idiot. Pathetic.

No. Those aren’t true. I know those aren’t true. Why am I thinking like this? I thought this was supposed to stop.

Because you’re weak. A waste of air. Can’t even save her own mind.

No. I’m saving my own mind by shutting you up.

I am you.

Like hell you are.


For the past year I’ve been fighting.

Some days I almost wish I had ended it, because I know that I can’t now.  I’ve come too far, I have too much work left to do.
But I’m still fighting.

I still have spirals you see. Moments where I hear a voice that is my own, but different. Moments where I fall into the darkest corners of my head and struggle to get out.

You deserve to be alone. People only tolerate you because they pity you, you sorry excuse for a human.

I know, I know. Believe me I know. Why do you think I don’t bother people?

Clearly you do bother people. Everyone you spoke to today. Everyone you pass in the streets. They all know how pointless your existence is, how ugly you are, how utterly naive you are.

I suppose they do, don’t they.


The darkness overtakes me. That different voice becomes my own. I curl inward on myself as I stare, unseeing.


Useless, insane, silly, disgusting, repulsive, sickening, wretched, imbecile…

I know I know I know.

No one will care for you, not truly. And the people who do would be better off not worrying about you at all.

I know I know I know.

Why not just save them the worry?

I know I know…no…

You were going to do it once.


The kitchen knife, the speeding car. It’s not like it’s rocket science.

No…no I’m past this.

The residences think they’re suicide proof, why not prove them wrong?

No…that’s a terrible way to think.

Why? Why would anyone care? Why do you not deserve to die.



In a moment like that I’m left a shivering mess, disgusted in myself in a whole different way.

Because I am past this. I know that for a fact.

I deserve air. I deserve to live. I have goals. I will see them to the end.

It’s words like these that I have to repeat, over and over again, until I begin to calm. Until that nagging voice that is my own, but different, quietens almost completely, scurrying away like an insect back under its rock.

Until it decides to return.

Until I spiral once more.

Until I’m fighting once again.

Puzzle Piece

I am a puzzle piece that fell in the wrong box
I have connecting pieces, I have a spot
I have a hole that I have left behind,
Or one that I’m destined to fill.
But for now I am here with these other pieces,
With someone trying desperately to push me in
But I do not fit, it is clear as day.
Still, it is forced upon me anyway.