Prologue
They say that suicidalideologies tend to mean something. That how you choose to accomplish your task is actually a symbol of what you so desperately need from the world. The one thing you’re looking for from a life that left you behind, leading you to this point.
Drinking is a cry for attention.
Cutting is blame of self.
A gunshot a desperate attempt to end it all quickly.
But pills … pills are the hope that someone will find you. Help you. Lift the weight from your shoulders and bring you right back.
I think it’s all bullshit.
They’re heavier than they should be, the handful.
But I think that’s really just the gravity of this life held in the palm of my hand.
They’re tiny and white, and there’s too many to count through the rush of tears stinging my too-wide eyes. I don’t know why they’re wetting my lashes. This is what I wanted.
It’s okay, the song blaring through the speaker tells me.It’s okay.
The lyrics continue to speak of being there. Asking me to stay.
Why should I?
There’s no one here to stand me back up and I’m not going to heaven.
This weighted palm will make sure of that.
Somewhere, in another plane of existence, my guardian angel is cursing. Shaking his head. Throwing his hands up at me.
Bet it’d be a pretty face.
The song has changed again and there’s nothing left to hold back the blackness surrounding me. Not that I’ve ever really tried. It turned out to be the best part of me. The one that drew others close enough to cut them deep. The pieces relatable to the damaged and desperate. The calling card to all the macabre and abuse.
Jesus Christ.
There’s nothing but deceit filling my bones. Replacing the marrow with nails.
I don’t belong here.
At some point it has to stop hurting so much, doesn’t it? This thing inside me that has no name, but steals everything from me as if I owe it my life.
As if it wants my name instead.
I thought your life was supposed to flash before your eyes, first?
Or is that only if it was a good one?
I don’t think I want to see the highlight reel staring back at me in the mirror, anyway. There’s nothing worthy of reviewing. Nothing worth noting.
I’m a nobody with shit for accomplishments. My trophy shelf is as empty as my aching soul. As bare as my fucked-up family tree.
My stomach twists, rolls over the actions I’ve taken, but the weightlessness I’ve begged for teases the edge of my subconsciousness. It’s taunting and promising as I sink further into the tile I intend to become one with. To leave my soul on.
Maybe then I’ll feel free from the abuse it’s taken at the hands of those that were supposed to love me.
No one’s gonna find me.
