The days before I knew how to turn my static into water were hard.

 

Screams and

scratches and cries

and suffering.

Unsurpassable mountains of anxiety and unexplainable chasms of depression.

Days jumbling into one under my duvet.

Ice

crawling up my arms and 

fire

burning my throat.

Turning and crying and self-destruction were my go-tos.

The tight chest 

and

the cloudy mind

with only

one

thing left to do.

 

I picked out what flowers I wanted at my funeral.

I wrote the letters that I felt I should.

I brought 

all

of the pills in  my house up to my room 

and sat with tears staining my cheeks.

I sat

for 

ages.

 

Instead of picking up

my pills,

I picked up

Rupi Kaur.

And then I picked

Amanda Lovelace.

Then Sherman Alexie and Henry Crane and T.S. Eliot

And then I picked up

a pencil.

And

I 

bled

until I had no more to give.

Until I was empty.

Until I could put the pills away.

Until I went to sleep,

and then I did it again

and again

and again again again again again again again

and now I am sitting

surrounded by words

knowing that they saved my life.