Death · Depression · I Miss You · Melancholy · Poetry · Pondering · Reflection · TW:Suicide

Letter to Myself

Me,

You can’t love someone enough.

You can’t love someone into sobriety.

You can’t love someone out of their pain.

And you certainly can not love someone out of killing themselves.

If it were possible this world would be a very different place.

The world would be filled joyous mothers as opposed to grieving ones and the rest of us would have our loved one by our side.

There is not enough love to save someone, you have got to remember that.

You can not martyr yourself attempting to save someone else, although you tried.

You didn’t make it out unscathed.

You branded this person on your heart.

Your soul will never be the same. 

Death · Depression · Free Write · Melancholy · Sadness · Writing

So Much So

So much so.

I’m broken in 12 different ways.

A million pieces of you.

You used to tell me,

“I won’t live to see 40.”

I laughed because I didn’t want it to be true.

I thought we would walk together into

our 60’s, our 80’s.

The memories of drunken nights

And wishing to die would fade into our past.

We were punk rock kids.

Misfits and the downtrodden.

We were too broken for this world and too crazy together.

That’s what happens to unrecognized lovers.

Black as night, our pain becomes our number.

Yours was called and I wanted mine sooner.

I don’t want to live in a world without you.

I mourned you once.

Mourned you two times.

I will mourn you everyday for the rest of my life.

Apathy · Chronic Illness · Creative Writing · Death · Depression · Free Write · Pondering · Prose · Suicide · Writing

We Are Waiting on Death

Often times, I do not feel anything at all, but when I do it’s raw and real and full of passion. I have been berated many times in my life for my intensity and sensitivity, which is why I am usually turned off.

I have hated this part of me for many years and pushed down so much of who I am. Yes, most have only seen the less extreme version. I have hidden away pieces of me, the parts I am told are too much, too intense, sad or crazy.


The ugly parts.

These experiences that made me real are the things the world is afraid to share, yet is the the thing we yearn to see, and when done can set one free.


We crave this vulnerability and yet run from it.

Afraid to show anyone we care, we hide from our truths, because caring means love, and love is eventual pain or abandonment.


It’s 3 a.m. and looking in the mirrior wondering why I couldn’t be his and why my stomach isn’t smaller, my legs not slender or my heart less fragile?

Why I was given this broken back with uneven shoulders? Why her arms could bring the comfort I no longer could but sought to give every moment?


The pain of inevitable loss is so immense that we can not even bare to look rejection in the eyes. So we don’t. We do not try.

We live only half in love and waiting for something that will fill us. Someone better, someone more than anything we could imagine.  Something to make us feel alive again…


But the truth is we are all terribly broken and we are all dying. Some of us at a  faster rate, but the end result is the same. We’re all looking for something to slow down death or speed it up. Or perhaps a distraction great enough to make us momentarily forget our human frailty.


I am, in fact tired of hating myself, tired of feeling like dying and done with trying to fight it off. I am genuinely trying to love who I am. But I have a lifetime of suppression of pain to work through. I look at myself and see crumbles of a person and I do not know if I can ever become more, except a greater mass of such.


Perhaps there is a chance out there. The piece of the puzzle I will eventually stumble upon. The moments to distract me from my own mortality. I wait for these times on bated breath and with a broken heart.