Breathe

Count to 10

It will all be okay in the end 

At 16 my mind was on fire and I felt every single flame 

They licked at the raw, open cuts on my wrists

They used my words to burn those I love most

How can this ever be okay?

I go to breathe but the air escapes through the shotgun hole that has been left in my chest before ever reaching my lungs

I try to count

1

I wish I were dead

2 

Someone, please kill me

3

This cannot be what life is like

Talking only made things worse

"Why are you sad?"

I am not sad its more than that

"Well what is it?"

I don't know

"How can we help?"

If I knew don't you think I would be doing it for myself?

The anger feds the flames and my whole body begins to boil

Its the first things I have felt in weeks

So I let it consume me

I watch as I set the forest on fire not caring at all

Only

The person I used to be is trapped inside screaming to stop

Numb

I sit on a therapist's couch

Looking at all their college degrees

Wondering how are you suppose to help me?

After about 5 failed therapist's I realized I couldn't say the words out loud

They bounced around in my head but eluded my mouth

I took pen to paper instead of razor to wrist and I felt freer than I ever had before

Writing out all of the pain and suffering was like releasing a cork from a wine bottle

Between reading to find new words and writing to discover my own 

I stopped cutting

I stopped wanting to die

More than that

I started wanting to live

Poetry is more than scribbles across a page

More than sappy love portraited in all its grandeur 

It is a safe house

An outlet

It is a piece of me

That without

I am incomplete