Don't tell me...

Sat, 03/31/2018 - 01:57 -- Arlea

Don’t tell me

that you know exactly

what went through my head.

‘Cause I won’t tell you “toughen up,

I’m already dead!”

Don’t tell me

who I did it for.

With that you're never gonna score

because too late, the crushing guilt

already tore

my wretched form

from head to floor.

No I never left a note

saying why I chose to choke.

Never would have cleared the smoke

or eased the yoke –

you should have listened when I spoke,

when I still had

a voice:

that’s a choice

that’s made and done and gone.

And yes, I WAS torn

when I thought

you’d have to mourn.

But then the

heart-wrenching gut-clenching

head-pounding square-rounding

breath-stopping wrist-chopping

belief took hold:

it’s impossible to miss, grieve, mourn, need

someone like me.

Don’t pretend you never knew

that I never wanted to

fix the problem as it grew:

the faces blaming me, not you!

“but they weren’t real”

it never mattered:

existence didn't make the deal;

just the wrongness I would feel

and hear and taste and- that was real.


Don’t tell me

that you know exactly

what went through my head.

Please, listen to another, and

preserve their life instead.  


This poem is about: 
My community
Our world
Guide that inspired this poem: 




You've reached the bottom of the bottom end, now you can only go up.


Thank you for your encouragement! 

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