When I was four I remember asking why someone would fly a plane straight into a building if they knew they would collapse with it.
Self-hate, a foreign topic.
Seven years old, the only thing that ever dripped sticky red down my arm were cherry Popsicles.
When I was ten I found a book, it took me in and showed me how to burry my mistakes - with cold blades and a cold hart.
Every single second still etched into my mind in a way that wound make your blood go cold and your heart sink like a ship that’s lost all hope of seeing the horizon.
At what age do you cross the line of understanding the pain behind suicide?
At fifteen, hopeless holds a real meaning,
bumped and bruised but somehow still breathing.
A ship with even the bravest of crew couldn’t sail through my aching mind.
Seventeen- When every river on your skin is manmade there’s a hole in your heart the size of a grave.