I kill myself

with words

that I can’t say

for the sake

of those who

have mistakenly

put their faith

in me,

and I,

who is lost

in battles

that can’t be won,

find myself inside

a darkness that

causes my heart

to break.

I feel the pain

of those that

when they speak

the truth that

is wrong,

in the eyes of those

with power,

are shot down.

But here

the only guns

I own are

pointed at

none other than

myself.

Merciless.

Murderous.

Maleficent.

They name

me cruelly,

but that’s

because the voices

in my head

know me all too well.

Why shut it out?

Let it out!

The pain!

The anger!

The frustration!

The rejection!

The isolation!

They scream

to let it escape,

but since I’m dead,

I can’t bother

to bash others

with my words.

Violence can manifest

in my fingers, my mouth,

in my eyes, on my brows,

in my lungs, from my breath,

in my heart and in my soul.

I don’t want

to let it out.

My dreams

don’t include

monsters in

the shapes

of humans,

yet I often

see myself

with the face

of a beast.

When I wake,

I try not

to scream

or cry,

and I

hope that

the knives

I yearn to yield

are as kind to me

as they are to

the others

and the pills

will make me

sleep without

dreams.

When I awake again,

my skin is still intact,

my blood still in my body,

my breathe still in my lungs,

but my words are gone.

I searched for them

and discover

ripped paper

like the skin

I longed to bleed

and the glass-like

pieces of my heart.

On the paper

is the words

I once tried

to wrap

tightly around

my thin neck.

I no longer choke myself

on the words I can’t say

because I write them,

and I no longer worry

about the things

I can’t change

because I

have found

the words

to change

myself.