delicatepoetry

GOOGLE SEARCH:
Painless ways to kill yourself.

i. There is no painless way to kill yourself, someone, somewhere, will feel the pain.

ii. The internet says, “sleeping pills, you will fall asleep and never wake up! You won’t feel a thing!” When that is a lie, your stomach will turn to fire and your throat will fill with the taste of your own stomach acid. You will drown in your own spit. That isn’t even the worst party, it’s when your mother comes home from work. She will walk through the door, and call out your name. She will call and call and there will be no response, maybe you’re in the shower? Maybe you’re asleep? She will walk up the stairs, knock on your door to receive no answer. When she walks in she will see the lifeless body of her baby girl, lying on the floor. Her heart will stop but she will run to you with shaky knees, touching your face that is now still and cold. Her body will be on fire, and her throat will begin to tighten, the sharp pains in her chest will feel like knives in the heart. That image will kill her more than her own death, it will haunt her living years each night. She will no longer be alive, but just as dead as you are now.

iii. Years ago, your father showed you the gun safe he kept in the house in case of emergencies, you knew the pass code, you knew how to shoot and loud, at least you had an idea. They say a bullet to the brain will do the job.. So one night, when your father is fast asleep, you will be down the hallway staring down the mouth of a gun.
One, two, three..
Your father’s heart will jump and his body will follow, the first thing he thinks of is you. He will scream your name and run down the hallway and bang on your door. It’s locked. His knees begin to feel weak as he bruises his body trying to knock down the door, the first sight he see’s in blood splattered on the wall. At that moment his breath began to stop, and his eyes wandered to yours. Still open, but no more life inside your shell. He will drop to his hands and knees and scream why, why, why. There will never be a day he won’t hate himself, for keeping a gun in the house, for not making you happy, for not knowing. He will live a life without a son, live a life with an empty space. Live a life of hurt, and hatred for himself.

iv. You may think that when you’re dead and gone you will not be hurting anyone. You may think when you slide a blade across your wrist, you’re only hurting yourself. Yet I have learned that is not true, it’s not. The person who will find your body, the one who see’s the cuts, their chest will feel tight and they will feel like it was their fault for letting it get this far. The only mark you will be leaving on them is pain, hurt, and the question why? So please note this, there is pain in every suicide attempt, every death, every cut. You are not only hurting your life, but others too. Because you are cared for.

i.c. // “There is always pain in death, maybe not felt by the one dying, but felt by the lovers of the deceased.” (via delicatepoetry)

I really needed this.

(via giive-me-a-reason)

delicatepoetry

Her soul was dark and cold, every time she laid her pretty little fingers on something it messed up, whether if it was spilling coffee on library books or kissing the man she loved goodbye, permanently. Her legs were always banged and bruised from falling up and down staircases, she was too clumsy, she had dresses but never wore the because of it. Her arms had scars on them, from the past, always reminding her what happened. Most the time she cried more than smiled, and she remembered the bad more than the good. Very few friends were in her life, some she said hello to every month, and one she talked to daily. Everything was beautiful to her, the freckle on your noise, the dark circles under his eyes. Everything except herself. She was alone, broken, worried.

But let me tell you, despite her dull winter evenings on summer nights, her silent cries before sleep, her angry behavior when she messed up, she was something else. She was made to be perfectly imperfect, it was all in the way she walked, the way she talked. How she stumbled over her words but made them flow from her pen. The way her heart was the only warmth in her body, bigger than her being. The way her sad eyes got a little happier during Christmas time. The way she held secrets and mysteries in her head, despite the thoughts of wishing she was dead. She is beautiful, unique. She’s my 2 am crying phone call, my spilled ink on the pages, my winter loving summer hating, my tea drinker, my sad but happy, my girl. She’s my girl.

i.c. //  i like to imagine
how he feels about me.
(via delicatepoetry)
delicatepoetry

“How are you only seventeen?” They said,
“how are you so young but have all this
going on in your head?”

I don’t know,
I really don’t. I can’t explain
to you why I think death is the answer to
my problem, I can’t tell you why I think
soul mates exists because when I met
him it made me believe in something,
and fuck, isn’t that better than nothing?
I can’t speak about the scars on my thighs
because each one of them, according to
you were caused by lies, the lies that I told
myself, that I was too ugly, too fat, too dumb.
I still don’t see them as lies, because god
damn you don’t see myself through my eyes.
I won’t open up to you about how he ripped a
piece of my being away from me that night,
and no, I won’t open up about how every
evening there’s a fight. I will maybe tell you
about my mother, and how she thinks I am
crazy, and strange. I could never tell you face
to face about my suicide attempt, and how
I had it arranged. I won’t talk to you about
anything, nothing, not even over a phone
call. You’ll have to read my writing,
because trust me, it explains it all.

i.c. // don’t ask, read (via delicatepoetry)
delicatepoetry

We are the girls whose father’s tell us,
“wearing a dress while walking alone
in the city is more dangerous than
driving without a seat belt.”

We are the girls who are taught that
saying sorry after no is our protection
instead of the pocket knife or pepper spray.
Being polite is the only shield we’ll have to offer.

We are the girls who must rid our spaghetti
straps and V-necks on hot days, because simple
minded boys can’t seem to control their
“sexual desires” when seeing bare skin
on the shoulders and back.

We are the girls who are expected to be
smart, but not too smart because we’ll
not be seen as sexy to the male eyes.
“She must have a pretty face behind
that book she’s buried in.”

We are the girls who must add, “please.”
Before asking someone not to touch us,
as if we are asking permission instead
of giving demand.

We are the girls whose principal insists
to look at what we are wearing, “what do
you expect? Boys will be boys.”

i.c. // We are the girls who have been
taught to submit to the man. (via delicatepoetry)
delicatepoetry
This morning after I woke, I laid in bed and stared
at the ceiling for about thirty minutes, trying to
convince myself there was a reason to get up.
It was a fight, just to get my body to move,
because when my mind is going back and forth,
good vs bad, it almost paralyzes me. It’s like,
my whole body becomes numb and immune to
everything around me while inside my head there
is a war, a battle that I may never win. So I lay there,
almost lifeless as a dead body, “I have to get up.”
My body said yes, but my mind said no, slowly as
I could I got my feet on the floor but stared at the
wall some more. It took everything in me not to flop
back onto the pillow, only because the little voice
in my head was saying,
“there’s no use, why get up? This day is a waste,
your life is a waste.”
For a moment there, I almost let myself become
weightless and fall back into bed. Yet I knew
that’s what the demons wanted that haunt my head.
i.c. // accomplishments come in all sizes
(sometimes it’s just getting up in the
morning.)