I fought out.

We live in a world of the sun.

The light casting eternal shadows




Until it hides us who aren't brave enough to shine.


I                               was one who didn't come out,

Didn't                      want people, didn't want to be alive, but deep inside, I

Know                      I wanted the help, wanted to feel better.

I                               had options. Suck it up. I could talk. I

Could                    end it all. My weapon? A cold razor blade, the

Feel                       of its edge, teeth biting, nibbling,

So                          soothing, deeper, fangs sinking, until

Terrible                  ugly scars took their place over creamy white flesh.


What                     had possessed me to do it?

If                             I had struck a vein, it' over.

I                             drank acetone; it stung and sizzled against my hot throat.

Had                       I wanted to truly die? If I had

Done                    it, would my family and friends even care?

It                            was an impossible feeling.


No,                        I was too dramatic and self-centered to think right. Therapy helps,

One                      hour at a time. I threw the blade away, where it

Deserves            to be. I still struggle, but I can overcome my

Depression        and anxiety.


I'm                       proud to say I failed. I am

Glad                   I found help.

I                           wish I could have found recovery sooner, but I

Fought               it out with the advice to get

Out                     of my mind and into my life.


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