day 191:

When I was 13 I wrote my frist suicide note in iambic pentameter

As if a couplet made death any less final

Like I could be a story someone would read in a freshman English class

I wanted to leave myself to be dissected

I wanted to be the poem that changed someones life

That convinced someone to live

Since then,

I’ve learned to keep my sob stories secret

Like a dirty disease

Hide my tears under my sleeves

I have forgotten the bravery it took to break myself for progress

There are mornings that I wake wishing I had something worth dying for

Because loneliness is not nearly significant enough to be justification