Writing Suicide Notes In Black Ink

Is there something wrong inside my head?
I keep on wishing I were dead
Will writing about it help?
I think I am broken…
Threatening existence – testing faith –
Despair and depression comes
knocking on my door, Often…

I don’t ask for help
For I don’t know what I would say.
I just know deep inside
Something is killing me –
My mind is willing me –
To death, yes that’s the way.

Sometimes I question,
Was a Bertha always in me?
And I unleashed her now – Right?
Because this madness inside – I can’t fight.

And the thoughts – oh the beautiful thoughts
Of red wrists – hanging heads –
Of cutting myself up with a dull multi-tool ,
Seeing the blood ooze out, a pool !

Those feelings – oh how I want to feel
The numbness as a blunt blade skates through my skin
The struggle in breathing as I hang myself and a rough rope slits my throat out and in.

Why can’t I stop thinking of Self-harm ?
They say, It’s a sin.
Doxepin – Zoloft – Prozac – Will you keep me firm ?
Because they say, Pharmaceuticals will one day help me win.

Now it’s been more than a year.
Drowning still seems near,
No sky looks pink,
And I am still writing suicide notes in Black ink.

“A Raped Soul.”

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Photo Credits – Madhurjya Borah

 

 

Once upon a time, there lived a little boy.
He said he was scared..
And uncertain of his existence.
Wait..
Wait a second,
Can you hear his voice..?

“Can you hear my voice..?
I can still hear mine.
The way I cried STOP….
But he said, ‘Shh….’
And I made no noise.

He touched me..
Said he loved me.
It pained,
I restrained.
But then he hit me, ripped my shirt..
Pushed himself in, to a point where it hurt.
Absurd
Unreal
The power he had over my body and heart…

I see children being loved…
Loved by their parents.
But can I understand that word called LOVE..?
I guess my Father shoved the wrong definition between my thighs.
I was eight
My mind, terrorized.

Now, dirty from malice
I have a body – disgraced.
My soul – raped. ”