But hope that is seen is not hope at all.


I wrote a poem.

With one short breath she drowns away
The sorrows she lives with every day.
The relief she finds in a knife
Will one day slowly end her life.
It’s not that she never ever feels good,
It’s the voices that make her regret where she’s stood.
If only they knew, if only they cared
Then maybe she wouldn’t be so fucking scared.
The screams in her head make it hard to deal
With the fact that she’d just rather not feel.
The twist in the story is that “she” is me,
And I’d give anything for someone to set me free.

Medicated Perfection.


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23 years old. Theatre teacher. Hating life. Medication taker. Depressed. Bad at eating.

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