Battle with the will to live

Battle with the will to live Again and again I stroke at my skin with a blade. I’m trying to untangle my feelings by marring my skin. I’m fighting down alarm thinking, “Maybe the solution's found in pain, to make the ache in my heart match the ache in my arms.” I stroke again, this the art of my poetry. The calendar on the wall reminds me of all the time in my life. The days lining up to torture me. Can I really face them all? Why try? I try to fight down another urge to end everything today. Everything seems so pointless, i’ll just die. I hover over my wrist hesitating. I guess this is the end no use holding my last breath. But still I'm waiting. I’m scared of death, like any person. But I plunge on anyway. I’ve gotta get strength for once in my life. I’m battling my will to live, but i’ve gotta win. I can’t go on like this, I need to be free I'm gonna jump and hope God catches my soul. I don’t know if this is called faith or if it’s called stupidity But it’s all I’ve got left, and I'm finished stressing. I press down again, blood running down my arms I guess this isn’t poetic after all. A bit gross, and mostly depressing. Suddenly i’m praying, God stop me now. I can’t stop myself. So I call help, still praying. My mom comes, reels back as she begins to understand. A twinge of guilt hits me, but mostly i’m numb as I hold out the razor in my bloody hand. My voice sounds quiet and calm in my ears. “Here’s your razor back. I’m sorry.” Blood still running down my hand representing my forced tears. I’m still wishing for my comatose but what’ll I wake up to? tears and blood, drool on my pillow? I realize, suicide is painful for everyone, not beautiful prose.