I am not afraid of death—
quite the contrary.
I am obsessed with it
revel in it
seeking comfort in it
but I am afraid of pain.
Of who’s pain, I am not sure.
I want to know what it’s like
to feel the life rise out
slip between my lips
to feel my last breath
leave this mortal body.
Constantly, am I caught thinking,
I wish I could die.
It would be so much easier.
I open the medicine cabinet,
like a child in a candy store.
Undecided which sweet I’d like to eat,
but then I realize—
I have cavities.

I look at myself in the mirror,
and pretend the image I see is a ghost
so that I might find comfort in that what is there
is what I am not.
I turn to my right and see mom’s blow dryer.
What a shame it would be
if it feel in the tub with me,
but the plug has already been pulled.
I look at the scars of my arms,
my legs,
and I wish.
I wish I could proudly say
I did this.
I made these—
but the truth is
they were made by an angry puppy
yet I can’t help but pretend
that I was in control,
that I could do such a thing,
but I’m a coward.
I’m afraid.

I sit back and think.
I want to live a day
in which I have killed myself.
To see how everyone would be
if they would miss me,
and who they would blame.
I want them to blame me,
my problems,
my depression,
but what pains me the most
is the pain I’ll cause my mother.
I’m not afraid of the pain of not showing;
I can cast away my feelings
like they were never even there
I’ve done it many times
and it doesn’t hurt hat bad;
but the idea of my mom
blaming herself
tearing herself
ripping herself
bothers me most.
She knows I’m afraid,
she knows I can’t bear pain,
and I know if I ever decided,
she would not let me walk alone
her hand would be in mine
and she would tell me
“baby, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

and that’s what scares me most.

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