**Trigger Warning: Suicide**
I was brought here without a choice-
so was everyone else.
Fixed around my neck,
an umbilical cord.
I stumbled down a path
where I could not choose for myself-
so everyone else did for me.
Fixed around my neck,
a noose.
At least this was something I could choose.
I went about my day as if it were any other,
waking up smothered by the weight of apathy
my grey walls were so generous in giving,
tasting dried air tainted metallic, salty even,
longing to be embraced by
soft satin arms of ivory sheets;
a place of rebirth to start anew.
Lack of self-love lead to displeasing sentiments;
I looked, felt, thought-
perhaps these reflections were selfish
within themselves.
Fragmented, unloved, pitiful bastard.
On the other end of this noose
is a blue balloon lifting me up,
not to heaven but too close to the sun-
mirroring Icarus’ fallen figure
into frigid waters.
My room felt less grey, hints of silver entering through the drawn open curtains.
Winter appeared more familiar than foreign,
fit for the occasion;
desolate, callous, immaculate.
I recalled sleepless nights
listening to its chilling vibrato,
four-part harmony tempests.
My eyes settled upon
out of place for the way
shores of powdered sugar,
delicate, undisturbed;
waiting for snow angels to be formed.
I had always found tranquility in wintertides,
something I could never find
at “home”.
Homesickness overcame my nostrils,
white jasmine, pine.
Goosebumps bubbled across my body-
blistering under the heat of the cold,
senses dulled, numbed.
A muffled plunge
through cascading waves of blue balloons
broke my descent, limbs whiplashing,
shattering crystalized pieces of thin ice.
What followed after rivaled the bravado
of a gunshot-
a twisted snap.
Fixed on my neck,
etchings of red thread.
Swollen, bruised,
suffocation by white daffodils,
if only that were the reality.
Reality is anything but
flower-talk and rose-tinted lenses.
It is ugly
to those who called it the cowards way out.
ugly
to those who wished they had done more.
ugly
to those who were revived.
ugly
to those who succumbed.
I laid in the stillness of fresh snowfall,
winters spearmint breath
whispering in my ear,
wake up.
The dreamer, she kills her self with what she believes makes life worth living | Story Inspirations | Pinterest | Poems, Words and Writing. (n.d.). Retrieved January 30, 2019, from https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/ATfDCs1oSE8CNbY7_h8wY1pXUcLdf0W-wKHkEvDEMTIwekYbpJEsG84/
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