Suicide Anthology: Part I
19 sensitive souls address the ultimate taboo
Fade to Black - Kristine Kwamena-Poh
If I just fade to black Would it even matter that Depression has scored And I'm so insecure Oh, But silly me to actually believe You care more about me than what people perceive And on the inside as I begin to bleed I hope and I pray that God'll intercede And you'll begin to see what your love did to me I hope you'll begin to see what being us did to me Because all I ever did was try to love you, was try to serve you, was try to be true But the more and more I tried The more you pulled away And the same sad song plays day after day If I just end it all today Would you see the role you play In hiding my inner light And ignoring this ongoing plight Of trying to decide if death is the answer These thoughts being validated by the necromancer That hides beneath the surface of fake smiles and praise Evermore urging me to raise This knife to my wrist Because my presence will not be missed It’s far to late To clean the slate The damage has been done There’s nowhere left to run So many times I’ve held onto hope only to find despair I’m realizing death is the answer to my ongoing prayer I no longer want to feel this lingering pain There’s nothing left in this world to gain So I’ve decided to make the ultimate choice To permanently silence my own voice It’s not as though you cared for it anyway So I’ll just fade into the dark of day Maybe then I can finally stop trying to live for your validation Because my heartbeat will reach a cessation Though a drastic act, it will guarantee That from this mental cage, I’ll be set free So I’ll just fade to black Since it has become aware that You don’t care anymore About what I constantly endure When it comes to loving you more than myself Subconsciously putting my emotions on a shelf Prioritizing your needs before mine You always took the credit and had to shine I just hope you’ll appreciate me in death since you didn’t in life I’m done with this emotional strife So to the world I say one final goodbye Maybe you’ll learn to love me after I die
© Kristine Kwamena-Poh (Yaa B.) 2025
Train Track - Ruth Boukhari
They say only iron can kill a ghost, so when the sun is newborn at 7am I’ll glide through the early streets, climb the station stairs with the nine to five zombies, and wait right there on the edge of that platform, stare those iron tracks down until I feel the rushing wind slap my face and I know it is time. I see the sad faces in their suits and skirts, move forward like slugs, ready to start their enslaved day while I stagger on tip toes, waiting for those vibrating tracks and that horn to tell me when... And I suppose this act is selfish since the end of one life will ultimately alter another- that train driver forced to live his days with the knowledge he inadvertently killed someone, and the passengers, late for work, late for dates, the mother that weeps, the friend that regrets, the lover that feels the guilt... But a ghost who has amounted to nothing but a memory of what was once good lacks the courage to consider the ones she loves before the deed is done. So much loss, so much wrong has been done, so she will fly out in front of trains, feel the hard metal on her back, the iron crushing her legs, her soul spilling out with the blood, and then all will be numb. All will be numb.
© Ruth Boukhari 2025 - Originally published in Bell Jar, and revamped for Suicide Anthology.
The boy and (in) I - H. R. Sinclair
I spoke to the boy today.
He still feels alone
I told him of love and happiness
and he nodded in agreement
I know he knows of it
but I don’t think he feels it.
I spoke to the boy today.
He was sitting by that
ever-alluring sea
hand buried in the cold sand
crying for home
somewhere he did not know.
I spoke to the boy today.
He still troubles himself
with problems not of his own
I asked him his feelings
and he told me of others
I asked him his dreams
he responded with silence.
I spoke to the boy today.
With his head down in
ink splattered pages
my voice rose his head
and with it a smile on his face
like a mask at a ball
pretending to have fun.
I spoke to the boy today
he told me his plan
he told me his solution
and showed me his note
words I had seen before
read before
words I wrote before.
When I spoke to the boy today
my tears ran
far more than that sea
my heart sank
far deeper than he would
my soul hurt
far more than he was
for I know what the boy could have
I know what the boy could feel
I know what the boy could be
if he would just go
another day.
I really hope that boy goes another day.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
Moebius Stripped - Peculiar Julia
I am still on a loop of disbelief
the jump
into the known
if only it had caught
if he had been caught
by a loop of believing
in something better
that something could be better
that we could help
to bring things round again
and then he falls
but he doesn’t fall
he jumps
and then he falls
loop…
And she asks if she could have caught
if she should have caught
And they ask if she could have caught
Surely someone could have caught?
And in our hearts she’s falling with him
and we don’t know how to catch her
as the thoughts in her head go round
as the thoughts in our heads loop
everything is trembling quiet
teetering with words we don’t know how to say…
And we go to buy a scented candle
we go to buy a memory
or something to focus memories
and there are breakable things everywhere
as we loop the store
go round and around
and through the aisles
of glass, of china, mirrors, so much
so many, shining, tottered on shelves
ready to fall…
and my life is become a litany
of counting storeys…
These are the type of things
we think are precious
fragility surrounds us
so easy to bash, to crash, to pitch over
with my clumsiness and my clutter
and my everyday confusedness
and I cannot bear to think of it
that anything be knocked,
be smashed, dashed
to smithereens…
broken
how will we be mended?
Loop …
© Peculiar Julia 2025 - Originally published in Scuzzbucket, and revamped for Suicide Anthology.
The Design of Death - Edward Swafford
You think it’s a want then due wending reality bites
when thinking
is countermand and wanting is never knowing
not enough, nor replete stratagems of knell kindness
strata cum laude - those sounds?
fantasy stealth, chimeric, yet it’s YOU/ME/I/THEM
how minds intone like leaden mountebanks, c-o-y
basic survival submits to secondary “it’s only once”
ideogenesis
foreordained flaw in death’s signature black ink
blotting circles of drip-fed life over an icy blue crop
planted blueprint
of otherwise perfect overwise otherworld escapism
so therein an atom splits herein, do you feel it now?
Believe me when I say it’s the serotonergic secret, a
dopaminergic flux of felicity heights and flagitious
downlow desuetude loooooooooooooooooooooooows
that. insipid. comedown. crash…
visual cue-sombre-catch-22 aptote dualism, duels of
| EAST | WEST | NORTH | SOUTH |
four faraway ways for the umpteenth uroboric time
predesigned and primordial, it’s the “easy” way out
like licking a coward’s brow - damned if you do (?)
derided if you don’t (!)
killing time and kneading chronos, equated haste
it’s less a diurnal loss of clockwork cadence, lest
finality grants the check-out clemency card of your
fucking LIFETIME.
© Edward Swafford 2025
Thick-Cut Gemstones - Sasha
I crawl on all fours, drawing a claw into my underbelly, seeking heat within the cavern of my wild body. I cup the blood and offer it to you in a glittering chalice with thick-cut gemstones like glinting eyes. I bow my head like prey sacrificing itself to its predator, that ancient breath of defeat. The eyes, I realize, are from a glinting-eyed angel, who sits in the corner of the room and watches as I bleed out. The angel blinks, signaling that a feral angel prophecy is fulfilled the moment I open my mouth to tell you my name. That instant a pocket of the universe opens and fills with the energy of eons, time and space compressing to bring us to the same room at the same time. You: kind-eyed hurricane heart hungered-mouth tall with the flesh of existence stretched to make you beautiful. Me: warm heart warm palm warm animal body heat radiating into the question mark of your arm heat that I drink in, burning my throat. I come back, like something rabid and sacrificial, open-mouthed, heart murmuring: again again again.
© Sasha (Alexandra) 2025
A Dirge - Pixel Floyd
it’s not exactly a house of horrors but it’s no less Hades as we partake our communion with ritual madness our bread is stale our wine is vinegar we swoon with emptiness and lust for distraction we might as well sober up and put to rest this rigor mortis that has become us for who’s living here with any pulse of satisfaction to enliven us our home is a mortuary entertaining the waxen in memoriam of their prime no one’s fault but our stars undivided and fixed love eclipsed no apologies the tarot speaks the River Styx calls us to her clay that formed us cracked and hollow do not fear her swallow let our brokenness be slaked and spun upon the potter’s wheel molded by her hand again love will return from behind a new moon the promise of every black night stronger for its light having been touched by the river it’s then our choice to seek new love’s tributaries lest we be damned by fate to drown in familiar waters
© Pixel Floyd 2025 - Originally published in The Howling Owl, and revamped for Suicide Anthology.
The Ocean - Jack A. MacDonald
I step forward. Thinking too hard. I can’t defeat it. The smell of sea salt in the air. The sound of the white waves crashing against the shore. Like a constant hum. The sand. An undying group with a singular cause. I can’t defeat it—any of it. And the water wraps gently around my ankles. I step forward. Did chaos give birth to perfect order like the myths insisted? Or did it only change forms? I look toward the skyline, and it is everlasting and strong and proud in its wide stance. It has what I don’t. Faith and self-possession. A sort of metaphysical confidence. The water absorbs my legs now. I step forward. The trees. The stars. The icy glaciers. The rain running through lakes and rivers. I can’t defeat it. I’ve wondered—for long I’ve wondered—if I ought to join the chaos and admit to myself of where I belong. Return to that chaos which birthed me—a thinking thing, anxious and feverish. Crazed by distressed and agitated thoughts. My heart thumps as the water brushes my neck. A final resolute decision—to return. And on that clear orange and blue morning, I step forward. It’s swift. It doesn’t waste time. It doesn’t know me, but it knows itself. And I’m pulled swiftly away. Thrown into the water and thrown into the dark. Geworfenheit. That darkness—I’m familiar with it. It’s that same sort of strange nothingness that envelopes the tired overthinker. The ceiling at 3am—a black screen refusing to play another goddamned image. Enough time, enough thinking, and nothing makes sense anymore. And everything becomes nothing. But suddenly, somewhere in the silence, I hear strong, burly voices crying out. “Here! Here!” “Up now!” “C’mon, boys! Hoist ‘em up!” “Slowly now. Watch his head.” I awake beneath many bearded men. The sky above them is blue and bright. It hurts my eyes. But I can see all these tall men with rough faces standing over me, looking down as if investigating. And I wonder—what happened to the darkness? That calm darkness. I try to ask them. To beg them. My clothes are soaked and my throat is tight and I can’t make a sound. I struggle and I panic. The men kneel down and place their heavy hands on my chest. I try to move, but they keep me down. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. Air weakly squeezing through a broken tube. There’s people scrambling, yelling, tossing things onto the wood and into the water. I can hear boots pounding, rope unraveling, heavy breath, splashing. “Oi! sit ‘em up, then, Roy.” “Food, anyone? Water?” I blink. I am seated upright in an armchair and the floor is swaying beneath me. The wood moans gently. The bowl in my hands is hot and the blanket around my shoulders is itchy. I’m staring into the flame of a little candle in a dark room. I look into the wooden bowl. Hot stew and a spoon. I look up. The room is full of hairy sailors. One of the bearded men is seated in his own armchair, leaned forward over his knees, peering at me. “Remember anything?” he asks. His voice is loud and hoarse. “Why did you pull me out?” “You’re safe in here, son. You’re not straight. Must be cold. Eat more. Please, eat up.” “The water,” I say. “Why aren’t I at the bottom of it? Put me back. I want to be at the bottom of it.” I’ve never seen a noisy group of men more attentive. Listening to such a sad, confused man rambling, lost, defeated by the endless searching, and begging to join the chaos. They stare at me. Saddened by me. “You won’t let me go. Why not? Please, I don’t want to be here. Throw me back. God! Please! Throw me back!” They listen. Noisy, but they listen. Staring at me with dry eyes. I feel myself shivering in my chair. The spoon rattles against the wooden bowl. “The water?” someone blurts out. An old, ugly man seated at a broken table. “You’re already in it, boy! We’re always out here. You know … there’s no difference between us and the sea.”
© Jack A. MacDonald 2025
The Devil’s Cedar - Ral Joseph
A light she was born
Life's demons caught her. Her?
She was darker than coal
Facially stony as mount Sinai
Unholy in character as Saul
Spitting blames on earth for her mystery
Sharpening suicide like a joyous weapon
She thought the Lord wouldn't prophesy
Brought to shameful fall by the revelation
Her origins uprooted and sprinkled far
Dismantling - chaotic, she became mad
What we do now?
She was cautioned to reflect
Maybe the blood & burning bush might safe
Maybe her Jericho & Babylon might fall
Maybe holy waters might heal her
Coal adorned - devil swallowed
What we do now?
Suicide blades, deadly as David's stones
Suicide blood hounds her senseless to spur
Suicide tree, the devils cedar, rolled it's ropes
Be that the light! From where cometh?
Piercing deep, she fell to heavenly defeat
Just maybe, my sister was saved,
We watch on, till days on.
© Ral Joseph 2025
Visions of Patching - Samantha Lazar
He held the knife close to his chest— What should I do with it, Kid? You could slice me some cheese and put it on some bread, maybe? It’s late and I want dinner. Come on Dad, Can’t you swing for food? It isn’t that I don’t appreciate you Taking me out to the ball game— But I am hungry, And telling me to ask my Rich grandparents Only fuels my starvation — And how I have always held Guilt when I did nothing wrong Changing my mind—I was scared to go through The whole haunted house— Out through the in door. Like because you had paid that dollar, I just threw it out the window. When paying for college for me Someday, a decade after I graduate, you will hold over my head— The burden of my education On your life Or how you will think it is cool When you visit me and I have to Pick up my b.c. pills Run an errand with me Live life like my Dad. You’re so cool— You’ll ask the pharmacist if she thinks We are on a date. He held the knife up to his Adam’s apple What should I do with it now? Shave the stubble, Dad. You look a little homeless. Or is that the look your girlfriend likes? It reminds her of when you met— She dealt you another queen You’ll tell me how in the cards it was meant to be But only through vagaries But I will know she likes that song “Fast Car” Don’t tell me too much. You are going to be North of the River For a few days, And don’t worry I will pay no attention to that tray Under the coffee table When I lie on the floor To do my Wednesday night homework And I will soon forget that razorblade— that will belong to your roommate Who probably stole your jar of quarters Yes—it will be an inside job. Nice friends, Dad I’m only a preteen. And you’ll never know how Some day At Red Rocks Amphitheater I will remember this detail When Tracy Chapman lights up my heart All acoustic with her greatest hit. You will miss the moments I feel most alive. He held the knife between his teeth and barely hissed, now? Why don’t you cut out that antagonistic tongue, if you need extra drama tonight. When my son is born, You will lament you were not invited— As if a dad needs to be invited to his Daughter’s most momentous occasion— No one will receive a formal invitation to his birth It just happens—those who are able to support me Will be there. Yes, I will know you still love me. But it won’t be about you. You will only meet my child once— When in infancy, You will hold him up, incredulous That a baby could be so content— Cry a little bit, you’ll tell him Why, so you can pretend to soothe him? He held the knife up in the air. What do you see now, Kid? I see Mama’s coming for your keys. I see that I will need to sit in offices And relive this drama in a million ways I will learn eventually to accept What happened to you And I lost you then I’ll drive really fast with the lights out, or try to get out of the car while it’s moving He said— The knife held to his wrist. Yes, just like you did when we were little, Dad. You will try to get out while I’m driving some day, You’ll fumble with the auto-lock handle, Fury that makes your daughter unknown Animosity glued to your foggy memory I may try that trick some day Or maybe get caught driving The wrong way Headlights all wrong Steering wheel melting I will meet a kid in high school Who will make sure I am aware that I cannot live without him Who will someday remind me Of this night and will bruise my Bones when I try to escape But you will never know him. He held the knife out to my sister. What now? I don’t know what to do. Run upstairs, I screamed at her. Can you understand how I will spend My life chasing her friendship Healing from this night Filling up an unfillable gap? I dare you to, I said at last. I dare you to scar me worse. For your edge isn’t really that steep, But I will forever forget to sleep.
© Samantha Lazar 2025 - Originally published in Literally Literary, and revamped for Suicide Anthology. 
Final Goodbyes - J. Kayla
You called it love
but love doesn’t echo
like the slide of a Glock
the click of an empty chamber
guns sliding out of drawers
loud enough for small ears
pressed against bedroom walls
in a silent house
Your threat
to match my threat
of leaving
You staged your pain like theater
carved despair into spectacle
turned our friends
to unwilling jurors
Your grief glowed in group texts
photos calculated to bleed just enough truth
to seed doubts that bloom
blurring despair into martyrdom
And the children
you made them witnesses
rehearsed your exit lines
with the precision of knives
Their childhood collateral damage
to your wounded ego
You timed your calls
to catch small hands
trembling toward the phone
their eyes wide as prey
before teeth
knowing wrong words
might make you vanish
and they’d bear the weight
Tell your mother she killed me
you whispered it
like a bedtime story
made them messengers
of your manufactured doom
Your goodbyes stretched
like shadows across our days
Long goodbyes
drawn out
like a slow death
under a spotlight
your absence weaponized
even before you left
Each threat a noose
dangling over breakfast
over homework
over every moment
that should have been safe
I never mourned
my image in your script
I mourned for them
the ones who saw your face
and learned to flinch
who heard your voice
and swallowed screams
who cried
not because they believed
you’d truly die
but because you twisted
their fear of the chance it was real
into something
that hunted, haunted
We fled
to numbered rooms
with vending machine dinners
half-eaten meals growing cold
warmth fading
like any hope for calm
The phone a ticking bomb
beside takeout plates
my breath caught
with every buzz
not in grief
but in rage
My rage not at your leaving
but at your strategic staying
The oldest called 911
more times than
she took exams
those dreadful weeks
The youngest became a negotiator
before he could spell the word
agreeing to anything
that might keep you tethered
I knew
your death would come
with perfect lighting
your silence
carefully framed
for maximum exposure
No body to bury
only performances
to survive
my protection branded
as theft
my shelter as crime
And yet today
you still breathe
and see your children
every other week
I kindly pried
your goodbyes
from their bones
like splinters
Your selfish ego
never left this earth
All the ringing phones
dissolved to
wounds on their souls
and melted into relief
that you
finally
stopped calling.
— J. Kayla
© J. Kayla 2025
Rose-Tinted Affliction - Jozef Cain
i've stood alone on the edge of the mountain with my back turned to him hoping you would pick me up to fly but you're wings burned up in the fall and i'm just a man who's hurt people and i'm hurt too i absorb the hurt and learned to hurt from other men like me and it comes spewing onto the ones iloveand they learn to hateMEthis b e a s t this w a s t e of f l e s h there's no saving face just do itcheck out
© Jozef Cain 2025
Suicide: Not Our Way - Oli Trollgora
“It’s not our way” My father told me. “Suicides don’t go to Valhalla.” “Don’t you mean Heaven?” I would respond. “They are both the same place to me.” when pressed on what he really believes. But I know it’s only him like that. My cousin took her life years ago, and my aunt still feels the pain of it. I know the feel of steel on my skin, the sharp edge of the knife on warm skin. The weight of a loaded gun that can be put in my mouth or against my head. With all of the tragedies in my life, no one would question or even ask. Then I look at him, who has lost more, and he clearly says “It’s not our way.” I would hate to be wrong and find out Valkyries don’t come for suicides.
© Oli Trollgora 2025
The Door - Linda Kowalchek
I stand before the door again. A golden opportunity shining bright to free me of my pain. The door is big and beautiful. Gleaming in the sun with the promise of tranquility on the other side. I’ve approached this grand door before. But this time is different. Not made in haste. This slow and deliberate walk to the door follows decades of suffering. Immense hurt inflicted on the deepest creases of my soul. A cumulative damage impacting each fiber of my being. Dead parents and sister. Abandoned once again. A brain I cannot escape. Moods of a crazed chameleon. Days awake. Weeks in bed. Unreasonable demands. Unrealistic expectations. Always a friend or a fuck, but never more. Such a pretty face with a body of betrayal. Used and useless. Struggling to exist. Lying to survive. Acting to adapt. A universal reject of everything by everyone everywhere. Worthless. Wasteful. Unwanted. Unneeded. Morally bankrupt. Ethically corrupt. Never good enough. Always a disappointment. Master manipulator. Tens of years of continuous attacks on my spirit, body, and mind. At last, I decide to surrender. I stand before the brilliant door ready to leave this brutal world. As the sacrificial lamb, I decide to sacrifice myself. I will open the splendid door. On the other side, a world without torment awaits me. The divine door to my freedom will open easily. Pull the trigger, kick the chair, swallow the pills, pick your poison. But once I walk through the door, it will slam shut permanently. It will close hard with a giant roar like a cell door in a prison. I will realize the inside of the door has no knob or pull. This one-way door is marred with the deep scratch marks and gouges of those who changed their minds and wanted to go back. Am I sure this is what I want? This is my point of no return. I stare at the door with tear-filled eyes. I shake as I take a small step back. I turn and slowly walk away from the door. Reluctantly, I reclaim my life of unhappiness and loss. A decade trickles by, like the slow drip of syrup from a sugar maple. A never-ending struggle to find a reason to remain on the familiar side of the door. Each day I tell myself the biggest lie I can concoct. The falsehood that I will find peace living within my malfunctioning mind. But my daily fib becomes my powerful truth. Today my many broken pieces form a mosaic of strength and focus. But permanence is a myth composed of false hope and baseless dreams. That which pleases us one day can leave us gasping for air like a kick to the gut the day after. Today I choose to leave the door closed. I promise nothing about tomorrow.
© Linda Kowalchek 2025
Unkind - Laura Catanzano
In a small notebook on a white bookshelf
lies an index card with a few small notes—
it asks, among other predictable questions,
what you would want
my daughter to inherit from her mother—
and you, dear heart, wrote in juvenile scribbles,
"Her Kindness."
Imagine my shock, as those words sunk in, and
I knew without a doubt that
I wasn't then—
Kind.
I wish I could claim it.
I wish I had told you that
your quirks and clothes and out—
of—touch greetings didn't bother
me a bit. I wish I had hollered that
you deserved to be here, to stay here
to love here
just as much as the ones who made you cry.
Maybe more than those ones.
But I wasn't kind then. And I didn't.
At least not loud enough for you to hear me.
And I hope that you forgive me,
because when I think of your
poor mother, finding you
alone in that garage, I'm
sure it wouldn't help her one bit
to know that you
once called me—
Kind.
God, what does it mean that it still helps me?
© Laura Catanzano 2025
Long Way Home - Joshua Ingold
There will be no sudden dark. Lines run heavy yellow and white, and I sit above myself, where visions live, where the mirror is my eyes like old coins. Eating memories collapsed into moments spoonful's for every breath, the road quick to open sideways and I hold a numb regret on wrists that resent the weight. Between curves I float to meet my mind. Not the want, but the chance to fall, how many fractions do I have before momentum makes the choice. Is there time to think in the instant, remove or distant height, a sigh where clarity and vantage are the reward. Is there glory in the spectacle, forgiveness in the grief, when their hands are raised in questions that sound like apologies never spoken. Is it anger. Will they love me. Am I more beautiful as a memory, a crumpled jacket photograph, a smile that stays between the lines. Let go to watch the needle fall from center one last time. Not apathy, not curiosity. Let go long enough to leave. Cross the line at speed, and there is no more sudden dark.
© Joshua Ingold (ennuigo) 2025
Dark Decry - Robyn Bourgoin
on the days I wish to sink to the bottom of the ocean.
cold waves pull me into the darkness,
it becomes a part of me and
I am alone here –
all the pieces of me I always give away
are drawn to me again.
in the heaviness of the deep
a deafening silence,
my eyes only see the shimmers of light from above.
a calm in the storm that washes over me, somehow,
I know that I am drowning and yet –
at the bottom of the ocean with no one to find me –
I am safe,
and I am home.
© Robyn Bourgoin 2025
A Thousand Tiny Cuts - Devo Carpenter
A thousand cuts Death by a thousand cuts The door flung open or tentatively pushed as to not disturb Either way you are in the room The chips are available Ripping the bag or carefully pulling that opening apart Life for me is a tentative step towards the void I used to go home with random strangers The scarier the better rough wrong yes Road chicken is my favorite While driving on a lonely road close your eyes Accelerate then count with heart racing 1 2 was there a turn ahead I don’t remember don’t look 3 4 the wind rushes from the open window don’t look 5 6 I want to be buried in my red dress don’t look 7 8 was there a tree was it on the left or right don’t look 9 10 goddam it next time don’t bring a phone Clear road ahead eyes open Exploring strange streets Dangerous part of a new city 4 am Heart racing daring, Inviting danger to come your way Pills are a real treat How many does it take to bring on eternal sleep List complete letters written Family seen bills up to date Done over finished She was so young, such a tragedy they will say So beautiful so sad Playing with death is like Not being the bad guy in the relationship Driving to make them leave you Getting sympathy Such a tragedy so young freak accident It doesn’t matter if the door is flung open Gently pulled just a crack a peek You are still in the room By a thousand tiny cuts or one big gesture The room entered. The complete peace
© Devo Carpenter 2025
Wave at the Moon - Tita Bunny
lying on this sticky couch in this tiny house crying into salty palms - wrapped in soft blankets that feel like you holding my own hand just to get through frantically wiping away tears every time i hear you come into the room. smiling hurts - feels like i'm lying - through my teeth just trying to keep the peace i don't want you to know what i see when i close my eyes don't wanna think too loud in case you overhear something that breaks your heart and makes you want to cry thinking back to when i tried to leave without saying goodbye - snuck out the back door with pockets full of pills - the floorboards creak the last sound you'd ever hear from me it hurt me to just 'be' and i know it pained you to see. trying to make you smile when i just wanna scream - into a pillow made of everything he ever said to you and me. heartbeats so deep you can hear it through the phone. i just want to be with you, don't wanna be alone. regrets of my great escape - sorry that you had to save me from myself; guilty for my slurred sorries - my eyelids heavy with regret. i didn't mean to make you cry shaking my poisoned body screaming why ***** yet even now part of me wishes you hadn't checked your phone that i'd been able to walk out of here alone maybe your phone died right when i did, and you'd woken up to the news, that I was gone that there was nothing you could have done frantic calls from friends - tell me it's not true that it wasn't you that you decided not to that there's something we can do to make you feel less blue but i'm blue all over now i read my last line and took a bow. now my heart pours over, people tell me nice things and i won't lie and say it doesn't sting - stirs a discomfort deep inside because i don't see it, can I be bothered to survive? when i'm always running away, even in my dreams but you take a needle, some thread and you sew up my broken seams you feel my heart beat in your hands and thank me for staying for playing the game that we are given for sitting still when you know i want to run - for simply being - remaining unhidden you see the hurt behind my smiling eyes, the tears hiding under my obnoxious laugh, the perfect sorry inside my thank you. ashamed of the pain that peeks through the perforations he made embarrassed by my attempt - to stop him - to almost walk out the door when i should have stayed pretending i never think about what he did to me, laying his traps, sorry that i let him lay down the foundations to a house that will always collapse i'm sorry that I tried to leave so soon i didn't even leave a note, just waved at the moon.
© Tita Bunny 2025Thank you for reading.
If you are experiencing emotional hardship, please access professional mental health resources within your community and/or country.
Awareness is paramount.
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Thank you. All these souls SHINE ✨ grateful to be spinning the sun with you all in this timeline.
this collection is gripping, raw, and so poetic. We feel so alone in those dark moments, and now I read the words of other amazing writers and i see that we are all still here, and we are not alone.🤍