I was twelve

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Hey! I'm a new writer attempting to use this as an outlet for venting. I don't know what I'm doing so any feedback is appreciated!

Submitted: December 10, 2017

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Submitted: December 10, 2017



I was twelve the first time I thought of killing myself.

I felt guilty.

“There are others that have it much worse than me.” I thought.

“I should be happy.”

But I wasn’t.

I couldn’t tell why. Emotions aren’t simple to understand or express. I never told another person that I had these thoughts.

But maybe it was as simple as that.

I had no one to tell.

It’s not that no one cared for me.

Between lies, my mother loved me very much.

Between bursts of rage, surely my step father felt the same way.

I had friends, but didn’t connect with them.

I was insecure.

I was ugly.

I was scared.

Although I didn’t know what it was at the time, anxiety kept me awake every night.

During the day, I’d barely have the motivation to go outside and shoot hoops.

I was twelve.

I was sixteen, the first time I tried to hurt myself.

I spent the night awake with a knife at my wrist. A very dull, serrated knife.

I woke up the next day with nothing but a barely visible scar.

I woke up the next day, not because I was strong enough to go on, but because I was too weak not to.

That’s how I saw it anyway.

I was weak.

I still don’t know if I was truely at risk.

When I was nineteen, I decided I didn’t want to go home one night.

I didn’t want to open my eyes to another day.

I was sober when I got in my car.

I was tipsy when I stopped to buy a fresh knife.

I was drunk, while I drove around town.

I didn’t consider this a risk, because I didn’t feel as though I had something to lose.

I made it home that night.

For a while, no one knew what I had done.

Today, I am twenty.

This story does not have a happy ending.

But hopefully, when this story ends. It will.

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