Random Poetic Stuff

Pain

Hey, this is part 2 of 'Hurt' because I have a lot of emotions and need to get them out in a different way then what I've told you all I wanted. If any of you feel this way, I'm sorry, and also, feel free to reach out to me if you want to talk. I don't know if I'd be very helpful, but I am hilarious, so I will do my best. 

TW: self-harm, depression, suicidal thoughts 

Night. Night is dark. No one can see you at night. No one knows what you're doing. They don't care. Then again, they never care. 

Night is like hiding. At night, you could do anything you wanted without getting caught. At night, you can say what you're really thinking. At night, you can take of your mask.

You. You can do all of that. Me. I can't.

It's night right now, and I can't do anything but sit here and write and pray for death or happiness, whichever comes first. 

I pray. I tell God things. Things I don't even like to tell myself. I tell Him all this so he understands. He knows what I am, and He knows I don't want to be, yet He doesn't fix it. He doesn't take it away. He never takes it away.

Sometimes I wonder if He hears me. If he hears what I'm saying and intentionally ignores me. Other times, I think He may be oblivious, like the moment I say His name, he becomes deaf and can't hear me. 

As I pray, I remember. Remember all the times I needed Him and He wasn't there. All the times I begged for His help and He didn't give it. 

I was laying on the cold, smooth tile of the small bathroom floor. Tears clouded my vision as I pleaded with God for a chance to go home. A chance to get out of this hell. A chance to be happy. I prayed and cried for what felt like eternity until I heard a small knock on the door. 

Him. It was him. He asked if I was okay and I said I was.

Liar.

He told me to go downstairs. I couldn't budge. 

I tried, I really did, but I couldn't. Tears streamed down my face as I begged God for something, anything that would get me out of this situation. 

Nothing.

Get up, you fool. He's waiting. Go downstairs or you'll be in more trouble.

I stood up. I headed towards the door and opened it to see a stairwell. The stairwell to hell. My hell. 

I froze. 

I was back in my bed, staring at my screen, typing away. Memories. Flashbacks. That's all. 

I prayed to God to help me. He didn't. I questioned whether He loved me or not. I brought me back. Back to pain. 

I needed pain. The pain would help. The pain would heal. The pain could make the memories go away. I had to make the memories go away. 

I could go to the kitchen, get a knife. No, too easy to get caught. I could steal my mom's new electric razor. No, too loud. I could just scratch and claw at myself until I bled. No, too messy. 

You're fine. Suck it up and go to sleep.

They were back. The memories and the voices. They never went away.

Other people have it much worse than you. You're not important.

I know, I know. Just go away.

Nobody cares about what you think or what you've been through. That's nothing compared to him. Compared to her.

I know they don't care. I just want to make it go away.

They have it so much worse than you and they never complain. You're just a cry baby. 

I'm not complaining, I just want to be happy!

You just want attention. You're not actually depressed.

The voices overwhelm me. They get louder and louder until I can't hear anything else. People try to pull me out of my trance. They smile and tell me jokes. They tell me about the latest gossip.But the voices are too loud. They won't be silenced. 

Do it! Cut! Ruin yourself! You're already worthless!

They hiss at me, words like venom.

Nobody will like you no matter what you do, so you might as well destroy your body.

Every time I hear them, I almost listen. I almost do as they say. But something always stops me. Guilt. Shame. Fear. 

If I did it and anyone found out, I would never hear the end of it. They would send me to therapy and rehab. They would make me change schools, maybe even states. They would whisper about me when they think that I'm sleeping. 

I couldn't handle the embarrassment, so I stay in my box. My perfect little box made of glass. I can see everything on the other side, but I can't get to it. I can't break the box, despite it's extreme fragility. It's paper thin and rock solid. Now all I need are some scissors, but that's what to box keeps me from. 

Pain. It keeps me from pain. It thinks it's helping. Thinks it's keeping me safe. Maybe it is. But maybe I need the pain. Maybe I need to hurt and bleed because if you don't hurt you can't heal. Maybe.

So, that got... intense. My ticks literally started while writing the memory part, but I needed to. I had to get it out. And now I have to go to sleep. Comment what you think please. I really want your opinion on my crippling depression (and my writing). Bye!