shes slipping through my fingers.


i wish she could see how beautiful she is
that she doesn't need to disappear
for me to try to hold her.

i wont let myself lose her.
shes too young
too smart
too funny
too kind
and im losing her more every day.

i wish there was anything i could tell her
to make her see she is loved
no matter what
no matter how much of her there is left

i will always be there
and i'll never let her go again





cause sweetheart,
i cant watch you die.

i feel it hit me again
as if ive swallowed mercury
as if there are bees dying in my lungs
as if suddenly nothing has ever been right with this god awful world and i cant ******* stand to sit in the same room any more.

im so sick of this im so sick of this im so sick of this

ill destroy my hearing for the next few hours
or however long it takes for the music to overtake the intensity of emotion im feeling.
i cant describe it
i dont want to see or hear or think
i need a filter in my brain to catch all the ******* thats cluttering up my mind
i cant think straight
for now at least the music can brush up all the crap
i need to rest
i need it to be quiet
seemingly i can only find silence in noise loud enough to drown out everything else.
i cant even hear the music
its just... quiet

i am so scared that i am making this up

I will tell you,
next time we meet;
'I won't write you a love song'
because I don't think my heart can take it.

The last time that I wrote a love song,
was the night before he broke my heart;
It's bittersweet melody wails softly in my head,
lulling me to a sleep of regretful tears.

It was probably the most beautiful song I had ever written,
it was full of open scars that I was willing to share,
and the tones soft enough to bring the swifts in the rafters to silence.
and they would
...
listen until the final chord plays;
'i'm so human' i sing,
my voice trembling slightly as i feel it all swell back.

you see,
the problem with love songs is this;
no matter how beautiful they may be,
behind every word,
is another word that you will wish you had said,
before he broke your heart.

I would like to get something off my chest.
take this as what you wish;
a poem,
a confession,
a cry for help,
whatever you see fit.
But take it as this, simple fact;
today, I nearly committed suicide.

So, you're probably asking yourself
why or how?
so I guess I'll have to tell you a story.
you may not enjoy it, mind,
but if you have made it this far,
you must be curious,
right?

I woke up itching and aching from the mosquito bites and bruises all over my body,
(I went paintballing a few days ago for my friend's birthday)
and so, after taking some pain killers,
my mum suggested I had a shower.

The water burned at my swollen hands,
it beat against my purple-bruised back and arms,
and my hair was a knotted mess that I couldn't bare on my skin.

When I got out of the shower,
my skin was on fire;
everything was so, so, so hot and my hair was disgusting against my neck and back which were already aching from lying awkwardly in my sleep
I didn't even have any clothes to change into when I got into my boiling-hot room and I didn't want to just walk around in a towel.
So I just sat.
And cried.
And yelled.
Andcriedandcriedandcried.
And SCREAMED.

My mum was concerned,
so she tried to help.
But everything was already too much;
I had gone nearly a month without any kind of incident,
so I was long overdue.
I couldn't stop scratching at the dozens of bites on my swollen hands,
and I was just so, so vey hot.
I screamed at her, and I couldn't help it.

She was just trying to help,
and I knew it then - I know it now.
I heard my sister crying in the room next door,
but I couldn't stop.
Everything was just so ****** up.
My dad comes storming down,
like he does when arguments are actually getting somewhere useful,
and tells me to back off and go back into my sweltering room.
I scream at him that he's useless,
that the only thing he ever does is make the arguments worse.
I slam my door as hard as I can,
and throw the glass in my hand.

After that, I couldn't stop crying.
the tears just kept coming, and coming,
and I didn't know what to do.
I wasn't angry - I never actually was,
that is just a lie that my mood tells everyone when I'm depressed -
I was just really, really ******* sad.

I couldn't get the thought of the medicine cabinet out of my head;
above the counter on the right of the kitchen sink.
I couldn't forget about all the meds in a plastic Tupperware box;
prescription drugs,
pain killers,
I knew that there was enough for me to do it,
I knew that my mum and sister were going out,
and that my dad had been told to give me space.
I could do it.

Did you know that overdose is the second most common form of suicide in women?
Because I didn't.
The thought occurred to me whilst I was sitting in my misery,
tears still pouring down my face.
Is it because it is just so easy?
Is it that easy for everyone?
Oh, sweet Jesus,
I hope it isn't that easy for everyone.

The scariest part of it is this;
I get these thoughts maybe once a week,
sometimes more.
I am only 14 years old,
and today I nearly committed suicide.
I have great friends who depend on me for their emotional support,
a promising career in acting,
an amazing voice,
good grades,
a not-insignificant talent with sketching,
and most importantly,
I have dreams.

Today,
just like countless other days like it,
I was completely ready to just
throw all of that away.

Now, I don't know if I will ever live until I leave school,
or whether I will live until my hair turns grey and I am surrounded by grandchildren,
but I want to get out a message;
age does not equal risk.
People doubt my truthfulness when I tell them about my health,
because I haven't "experienced" enough.
None of that matters,
because when it comes down to it,
all it takes is this;
a method,
a means,
and a motive.

Don't let anyone you love make the mistake I almost did.