Seven Cuts

When they ask me why I jumped off the roof of my brother’s apartment building, I will tell them it was because I wanted the sky to mourn me.
And because I wanted to know what it feels like to hit something so hard it shatters me into bits that they can never sew back together.
The funny thing is I don’t want to die.
I want to live.
Love.
I want to know what it’s like to kiss someone for the first time.
Or the last time.
I want to feel happiness.
But if the cuts on my wrist are any indication, that’s never going to happen.
I’ve only been alive for sixteen years but it feels like I’ve been fighting for lifetimes.
I’m tired.
The pain I feel growing every second inside my chest isn’t going to fade.
That consistent, ever-increasing pressure that feels like a knife stabbing my heart twenty-four-seven, there’s no getting away from it.
I can try to run but it will catch up.
And I can die under its weight or I can take matters into my own hands.
That’s the only choice I have.
To be in control for once.
Where I’m standing there is no sun.
No joy, no happiness, no hope.
Just the walls closing in and there’s nowhere to run.
The darkness.
It’s calling out to me.

Notes