A Poem from a Lost Soul
Warning: Harsh content written during difficult times. Please reach out to someone if you ever feel this way.
Life is hard when it's not your own.
Life is hard when people have one idea in their mind
Yet one thing can simply change it in a simple line.
"Your priorities are messed up"
"You never spend any time with us"
"You're always distracted"
"You're never home"
"You're messing up your future."
I keep myself distracted so I don't have to sit at home with my own thoughts.
The thoughts that drag me down and make me feel like I'm suffocating and there's no way to breathe except to slit my throat so air can rush into my veins.
I'm never home because being home means accepting how I can never be myself even when it's where I should be able to.
My so called future doesn't exist.
I'm not going to make it.
"Move out if you're not happy with the way we have things here"
"You need to make changes"
"We don't even know who you are anymore"
"You were so much better when you were younger"
When I was younger I didn't feel like this. I didn't feel like the world was against me and that I had nowhere to run.
I don't have a personally anymore. I don't know who I am.
Move out? Get rid of me so I don't stress you out.
I'll move out so you don't have to deal with my flightiness and my apparent random burst of aggression.
I don't want to be a burden anymore.
I don't want to cause everyone any ounce of pain that I feel inside.
I'm always someone who gives.
I give to others before I consider my well being.
The truth is, I don't matter to myself. I don't care what happens to me.
I'll work all day and all night to make my parents happy. To make my friends happy. So that I don't disappoint.
I only care because they care.
Fine by me at least things get done.
It doesn't matter, I don't deserve it anyways if my stuff isn't done.
Why should I be hydrated if I can't do simple tasks to make people happy.
If I die, I die.
I can't take it anymore.
The fact that I have this raging emptiness and despair on the inside is eating me alive.
No one understands.
They say I should talk to people.
I have told people once.
And they tiptoed around me for a while until I assured them it was fine and I'm feeling better.
I lie and say I'm okay.
I hide behind my sarcasm and my jokes and my easy laughter.
But when I'm alone
When I'm not doing something
When I'm left to my own thoughts
I look things up.
I do searches looking for the fastest way to die.
The most painless way.
The most efficient.
I make plans, and I think about what days I'll be alone enough so I can go through with it in peace.
How to convey just how much I'm hurting to those I love.
How to leave myself so no one sees and no one is surprised.
I think about just disappearing, leaving and never coming back and then killing myself.
They won't know. All they would know is that I'm not there. I'm gone. And for all they know I just got sick and tired of life and decided to leave.
But they could never guess just how permanently I want to leave.
At the end it just leave me sobbing alone on my bed with my nails digging into my wrists.
Clawing at my arms in a viscious hug leaving streaks of red trying to convince myself I'm not as alone as I feel.
I always end up begging to get a hold of myself.
I scold myself for being so weak and I hate myself for not being strong.
But it's hard.
I can't be the happy smilling person anymore that everyone expects.
I'm tired enough as it is to be constantly living a lie.
Would everyone expect so much of me if they knew the truth?
If they knew just how much I feel like living is just like dying?
I joke, I say "oh please hit me" when a car passes.
I say I'm so screwed and I say I'm going to die.
But behind those subtle jokes, there's hope.
Maybe the car will accidentally move a couple feet over and run me over.
Maybe I will just not wake up in the morning because I had a heart attack.
Everything will end like I know it will.
No I don't need to worry about my non exisistant future.
No I don't want to sleep.
No I don't want to eat.
No I don't want to take care of myself.
Why would I waste resources on myself when I'm not going to be around long enough to reap the benefits?
This is what I want to say.
But instead, I sit quiet.
On the verge of tears all I can manage is a quiet whisper:
I'm sorry for being a disappointment
I'm sorry for being an inconvenience
I'm sorry I'm not perfect
I'm sorry I couldn't make you proud
I'm sorry I'm such a burden
I'm sorry for being the reason you stress
I'm sorry I cant be enough.
I'm sorry I was never enough.