The girl stood with her back to the mirror, not trusting herself to look at the scars on her stomach yet. She still couldn’t believe the damage the fire had done to her already lack luster body. The girl wanted it all to end – the nickname “Toast” and the constant teasing over the burns that covered a good portion of her body.
all these years have made me very suicidal at times. Living through four centuries does really bad things to the mind. Watching everyone you know pass away, never making real connections because you know that you’ll go on long after they return to the earth.
Everyone has had a certain urge, one that permeates their being, the crosspollination of ideas of previous lives. why is it not the way I want I cannot comprehend this but any emotion too intense has made one feel this way.
There are times I wish I was dead, but then I thought about it again and I realized that I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to breathe anymore, don’t want to eat anymore, don’t want to talk anymore, don’t want any of that. I just want to sleep forever. If that’s what suicide is, then I guess I still want to die.
It’s not like I’d really ever do it. The label just means I think about it…all the time. Maybe someday, maybe tomorrow, not tonight. The darkness slides back for one moment.
flower unfurls, snaking its petals out towards the unknown
testing for time and space, and loneliness
leaves, deep-veined and green, green like envy
snags the blades before it takes the next step forward
Suicidal is the new pretty. Oh, look at her long sorrow eyes. She must have had a special story. Look at the scars on her wrist. Each cut is like a word of poetry.
But suicidal isn’t pretty. It’s nothing but absolute blankness. A void.
The dripping of the faucet echoed through the house, only to fall on deaf ears. Ears that could never hear again, would never hear words like weird, freak, depressed, suicidal ever again. It was the only way to end the pain and make a crazed mind sane. The scars mark only an empty shell, the person who once lived inside no longer remains.
You’re suicidal. I get it. You hate where you’re at and that’s fine. But taking your life is something that permanent and you’re already so erasable. You need to stay and leave a thick smudge, because that smudge is who you are. That smudge is wonderful.
everyday she felt like this. it wasn’t something that came out often though, which resulted in her suffering more than she should. she wanted people to know, yet how can you explain?
“What’s the matter with you?” she said, pulling me back from the cliffs edge.
I wrenched my arm from her grasp with a snarl. “I was just looking, for gods’ sake,”
“You were inches from the edge!” she exclaimed. “Looking down with that, that grin. Like you were suicidal or something.”
There was a dark corner in his mind, where all the suicidal depression and sadness hid. It would only show its face in moments of weakness, when his forced smiles and crafted joviality were at their weakest. But he knew it was there, and he kept it alive, turning his thoughts to it when no one else was around, because he needed it, he wanted it, to make him strong. His positive side could not flounder with the threat of destruction by the dark side hanging over it. That fear, that desolation, would drive him to try harder.
Why do I keep getting this word? Are you trying to tell me something? Are you trying to tell me that I want to kill myself? You are a horrible prompt. This isn’t going to help me overcome my writer’s block. Stupid, dumb website.
What horrible thing makes one suicidal? I’m grateful not to have ever felt suicidal. I’ve felt horrible, super depressed and even trapped but never have I wanted to end my life. Grateful is what I am. To be sure…. grateful.
Thoughts. Suicide. Something I’ve thought about a lot for the past 10 years but have never gotten around to actually acting it out…some would say thankfully. I, on the other hand, don’t quite know.
He wasn’t suicidal, not even a little bit. He’d never even consider it. All he was trying to say was that if he died, he’d be happy. He just didn’t want it to be his fault.
death. it hurts. giving up. no. please just don’t, why couldn’t they let me be? why did they have to push me this far? i can’t take it any more, i can’t go on any longer. i’m done, I guess they were right. I, poor daughter of a fisher, I am suicidal. Suicidal and depressed as fuck.
If you ever find someone acting suicidal on the top of a bridge, don’t grab the bullhorn, and don’t abuse the tissue. Tears, whether crocodilian or genuine, won’t do much to dissuade the desperate. But maybe know what their favorite food or beverage is and make the combination: A box of Hawaiian pizza and a bottle of Scotch; a jar of pickles and a glass of ginger ale; a can of Pepsi and a crate of crackers. Hand it up to them and ask to sit with them and eat in an impromptu picnic, to make a last meal a first one instead.
Suicidal is not in my vocabulary. I am overwhelmed with sorrow that so many teenagers find a final solution to a temporary problem. Finding things to be thankful for will help prevent suicidal thoughts.
He looks down through the ice. The frozen thoughts of a half clicking mind. The joints are all that’s left and even they are cracking beneath the weight of the sky. The freeze chunks past paradise and the fog warms the peaks.
I have never had thoughts of suicide. Maybe because of the cowardice of knowing the hurt I will leave behind and no means to do anything about it. I hate people worrying about me, and that would be the ultimate worry wouldn’t it? How does one come back from that. How does the ones left behind get their answers?
I’ve lost friends to suicide. I have, and all I can ever ask is, “Why?” I’ve considered it myself, but never followed through. There were people relying on me, people I could not let down. My friends were among the strongest people I had ever known and still they chose to end it leaving the rest of us behind. Did we mean nothing to them? I sometimes wonder if there was anything I could have done, something I should have done.
When he woke up, he realised how alone he was. He had no family – everyone was dead. He was recently fired, lost his car, his house, everything. He had nothing. He was noone. He decided to end his life.
As he crossed the bridge, to get to the cliffs, he couldn’t help but forget all those things. His past. It was like the bridge meant some kind of closure.
To drive on is sucicidal. You gor a girl in your passenger’s seat, passed out from watering down her bloodstream with rasberry vodka. You got friendly with a bottle of rum, she has to go home. Half the party thinks you’ve gone and took advantage, but really you were the only guy in the room you could trust taking her home. Reputational suicide for the sake of a good deed.
Jenny put the phone down. That was her last option. There’s nothing left. Everyone is dead. She’s the only one left no one will be at her funeral, no one to arrange it. It won’t happen her body will lie in the ditch until it is found. Who knows when it will be found?
In the last Time I think a lot about Suicide but im not suicidal, not at all. But everytime I see an old patient suffering from dementia, my fear of becoming like them one day grows. And if my Mind starts do disintegrate itself I think would rather die before I becoming an absent shell of my former being.
its funny how the silence can remind you of the pain. when there’s nothing in the wind except the burning sense that stains the deepest portion of your veins. it can’t be washed out like a tire filled with rubber. can’t be lost because no one is looking. hurt from the hurt of hurting hurt as it weighs down all around you. the milk in the jar just doesn’t seem to flow through the spout as its thick, rotten, and curdled like your blood sitting stagnant. its the pain. its the lowly sense of shame. its the moments when the light’s out. cutting corners just to cop out. no ones watching, but they’re judging. spinning. smoking. falling. poking. slimy. jerking. its the sun that someone’s turned out. the water when the thirst has burnt out. all the motions of the darkness hugging tightly in the madness. someone’s laughing while I burn out the only memory left to turn out this weak smile. the moment when i learn how to turn the blade that let my lungs shout. breathing deeply. as it gushed out. safe in silence. as i poured out. my own emotions on the floor. i deep red just like my soul. he took it from me. so i had to take back my only chance at starting back to where they know me. where my soul can find some peace and not be wholly, saddened by the one who marked me. i’ll go back to the darkness. i don’t want to the see the light. no ones watching. this is the perfect night. in the bathroom? in the closet? in the car? or on the floor? i can’t take it. stop it. not that. i wish i was stronger…but there’s no one ever at my door…except the sadness, and the heartache. the painful torture of the pieces to take the mistakes, the bad decisions, the regrets, and irreversible lessons. but in this silence. its complete silence. the voices are only murmuring my name. no one’s watching. no one cares. If i took a stumble purposefully down the stairs…no one’d catch me. no one would run..except away. because i’m a freak. i’m me. i’m a death trap in a death trap without a death trap or a map to find the way to free myself from the silence. its complete silence. its so loud that i yell to stop the silence. its madness. its shame. its a miracle when the pain. slowly eases. and i see some chance of singing again. but then i open these dirty lips filled with lies and it hurts again and brings tears to my eyes. its the silence. don’t talk. just listen. open your eyes. open your heart. they all tell me these things but it only cuts me deeper. i’ve been cut all to pieces so why not just finish myself off. its the silence. its the cold. its the darkness…yes, i’ve been told. to sit in sunlight. do the dishes. dance with friends. pick flowers. make wishes. take a road trip. run in circles. paint your toes. go out with a coworker. its the dumbest. stupidest. irrational. horrible. lamest ideas ever. i don’t want anything but this pressure to be lifted…to be lifted. break the glass and release the valves. its open now. all open now. i could end it now. i really wish i could end it now. i’d take the moment. i’d take the knife. i’d take the gun. i’d take my life. i’d take this silence and muffle it with silence. as my last breath breathes the breath of new life as i die alone. in the darkness. with no one to say my name.no one to say stop. no one to see the game that its all become. my life is too much and i wish to fold the cards but something inside me tells me its wrong. something deep down inside me wants to wait until tomorrow because it might not be as loud in this silence, the pain will cease. the pressure builds up and i want to sit down. this is a big question to question. is my life worth it? will it be harder tomorrow? will this be easier tomorrow? should i eat first? should i call someone? will this life on earth be remembered in stories or slip away into the darkness like my sadness…like my soul. i want to return to my hole when the days feel tough and leave me longing for the nights resting deep underground. i touch the blade that could save me. slay thy neck and in all senses erase me. but i wonder about the color of the casket. would it best suite me? do i have more thoughts to think of while i ponder. is there more left for me to do. this planning isn’t what i planned and i don’t wish to stand here shaking. so i fall. and i falter. like my heart that i wish to sacrifice on the altar. i just want the end to this chapter and a new beginning to start with the end.
I spent eight days in that part of the hospital that no one ever really goes to. Way off in the back corner–you wouldn’t be able to find it if you didn’t know it was there. I had macaroni and cheese for every meal. I used to love mac and cheese. Not so much anymore. Everyone else in there was just like me. We’d sit and watch TV, in silence, or put together puzzles, individually. That place supposedly taught us how to cope with being crazy, but I think it taught me what crazy really was.
The pigeon looked suicidal. If, indeed that is, an animal can consider taking it’s own life. I rather doubt that it was, it was just the forlorn look of desperation about it as it lay forlorn in the puddle.
She stepped to the ledge and looked. It was dark but the strings of light were beginning to reach out and pull her down to them. The night was leaving her with an empty chest. It ached for the darkness to be joined with that above. Her toes inched over the side and wiggled in the air. There was no use in feeling the breeze anymore.
This is a hard one, there is so much to be said about suicidal people that can not be fit into a minute.
I will say this though, I feel for all the people who have reached this point in there life, I wish I could reach out to them, to help them. No one should feel so much despair feel so alone, trapped or weak that they feel this is there only option. Which ironically is one of the things which must take the most courage in the world – and that is something to live for.
suicidal note if jiah khan had an amazingly story for newspapers. i was in crri reception reading on a newspaper about jiah khan’s suicide because of her some sort of fight with her boyfriend.
rodents clambering all over the road
waiting for the magical Michelin man
to wrap his puffed arms around their soft
squirrely bodies of flesh
and save them from roadkill corpsedom
The girl stood with her back to the mirror, not trusting herself to look at the scars on her stomach yet. She still couldn’t believe the damage the fire had done to her already lack luster body. The girl wanted it all to end – the nickname “Toast” and the constant teasing over the burns that covered a good portion of her body.
all these years have made me very suicidal at times. Living through four centuries does really bad things to the mind. Watching everyone you know pass away, never making real connections because you know that you’ll go on long after they return to the earth.
Everyone has had a certain urge, one that permeates their being, the crosspollination of ideas of previous lives. why is it not the way I want I cannot comprehend this but any emotion too intense has made one feel this way.
There are times I wish I was dead, but then I thought about it again and I realized that I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to breathe anymore, don’t want to eat anymore, don’t want to talk anymore, don’t want any of that. I just want to sleep forever. If that’s what suicide is, then I guess I still want to die.
It’s not like I’d really ever do it. The label just means I think about it…all the time. Maybe someday, maybe tomorrow, not tonight. The darkness slides back for one moment.
flower unfurls, snaking its petals out towards the unknown
testing for time and space, and loneliness
leaves, deep-veined and green, green like envy
snags the blades before it takes the next step forward
This is a painful word. This happends whenever a person couldn’t find any way to continue to live his life.
Suicidal is the new pretty. Oh, look at her long sorrow eyes. She must have had a special story. Look at the scars on her wrist. Each cut is like a word of poetry.
But suicidal isn’t pretty. It’s nothing but absolute blankness. A void.
The dripping of the faucet echoed through the house, only to fall on deaf ears. Ears that could never hear again, would never hear words like weird, freak, depressed, suicidal ever again. It was the only way to end the pain and make a crazed mind sane. The scars mark only an empty shell, the person who once lived inside no longer remains.
You’re suicidal. I get it. You hate where you’re at and that’s fine. But taking your life is something that permanent and you’re already so erasable. You need to stay and leave a thick smudge, because that smudge is who you are. That smudge is wonderful.
I feel empty; nothing else is left. I have done all I could, yet nothing could ever save me.
Words buzz through my mind
they are tentacles that drag me down a chasm
Her looks are a lifeline
that I never grab
everyday she felt like this. it wasn’t something that came out often though, which resulted in her suffering more than she should. she wanted people to know, yet how can you explain?
“What’s the matter with you?” she said, pulling me back from the cliffs edge.
I wrenched my arm from her grasp with a snarl. “I was just looking, for gods’ sake,”
“You were inches from the edge!” she exclaimed. “Looking down with that, that grin. Like you were suicidal or something.”
There was a dark corner in his mind, where all the suicidal depression and sadness hid. It would only show its face in moments of weakness, when his forced smiles and crafted joviality were at their weakest. But he knew it was there, and he kept it alive, turning his thoughts to it when no one else was around, because he needed it, he wanted it, to make him strong. His positive side could not flounder with the threat of destruction by the dark side hanging over it. That fear, that desolation, would drive him to try harder.
Why do I keep getting this word? Are you trying to tell me something? Are you trying to tell me that I want to kill myself? You are a horrible prompt. This isn’t going to help me overcome my writer’s block. Stupid, dumb website.
What horrible thing makes one suicidal? I’m grateful not to have ever felt suicidal. I’ve felt horrible, super depressed and even trapped but never have I wanted to end my life. Grateful is what I am. To be sure…. grateful.
Thoughts. Suicide. Something I’ve thought about a lot for the past 10 years but have never gotten around to actually acting it out…some would say thankfully. I, on the other hand, don’t quite know.
He wasn’t suicidal, not even a little bit. He’d never even consider it. All he was trying to say was that if he died, he’d be happy. He just didn’t want it to be his fault.
death. it hurts. giving up. no. please just don’t, why couldn’t they let me be? why did they have to push me this far? i can’t take it any more, i can’t go on any longer. i’m done, I guess they were right. I, poor daughter of a fisher, I am suicidal. Suicidal and depressed as fuck.
If you ever find someone acting suicidal on the top of a bridge, don’t grab the bullhorn, and don’t abuse the tissue. Tears, whether crocodilian or genuine, won’t do much to dissuade the desperate. But maybe know what their favorite food or beverage is and make the combination: A box of Hawaiian pizza and a bottle of Scotch; a jar of pickles and a glass of ginger ale; a can of Pepsi and a crate of crackers. Hand it up to them and ask to sit with them and eat in an impromptu picnic, to make a last meal a first one instead.
Suicidal is not in my vocabulary. I am overwhelmed with sorrow that so many teenagers find a final solution to a temporary problem. Finding things to be thankful for will help prevent suicidal thoughts.
He looks down through the ice. The frozen thoughts of a half clicking mind. The joints are all that’s left and even they are cracking beneath the weight of the sky. The freeze chunks past paradise and the fog warms the peaks.
I was suicidal before you
And you distracted me
Blinded me
Carried me
And all along
I thought I had gotten better
When in fact
I was worse
I was confused
I couldn’t see
And I couldn’t walk on my own two feet
I was suicidal before
And after you
I have never had thoughts of suicide. Maybe because of the cowardice of knowing the hurt I will leave behind and no means to do anything about it. I hate people worrying about me, and that would be the ultimate worry wouldn’t it? How does one come back from that. How does the ones left behind get their answers?
I’ve lost friends to suicide. I have, and all I can ever ask is, “Why?” I’ve considered it myself, but never followed through. There were people relying on me, people I could not let down. My friends were among the strongest people I had ever known and still they chose to end it leaving the rest of us behind. Did we mean nothing to them? I sometimes wonder if there was anything I could have done, something I should have done.
When he woke up, he realised how alone he was. He had no family – everyone was dead. He was recently fired, lost his car, his house, everything. He had nothing. He was noone. He decided to end his life.
As he crossed the bridge, to get to the cliffs, he couldn’t help but forget all those things. His past. It was like the bridge meant some kind of closure.
To drive on is sucicidal. You gor a girl in your passenger’s seat, passed out from watering down her bloodstream with rasberry vodka. You got friendly with a bottle of rum, she has to go home. Half the party thinks you’ve gone and took advantage, but really you were the only guy in the room you could trust taking her home. Reputational suicide for the sake of a good deed.
Jenny put the phone down. That was her last option. There’s nothing left. Everyone is dead. She’s the only one left no one will be at her funeral, no one to arrange it. It won’t happen her body will lie in the ditch until it is found. Who knows when it will be found?
In the last Time I think a lot about Suicide but im not suicidal, not at all. But everytime I see an old patient suffering from dementia, my fear of becoming like them one day grows. And if my Mind starts do disintegrate itself I think would rather die before I becoming an absent shell of my former being.
its funny how the silence can remind you of the pain. when there’s nothing in the wind except the burning sense that stains the deepest portion of your veins. it can’t be washed out like a tire filled with rubber. can’t be lost because no one is looking. hurt from the hurt of hurting hurt as it weighs down all around you. the milk in the jar just doesn’t seem to flow through the spout as its thick, rotten, and curdled like your blood sitting stagnant. its the pain. its the lowly sense of shame. its the moments when the light’s out. cutting corners just to cop out. no ones watching, but they’re judging. spinning. smoking. falling. poking. slimy. jerking. its the sun that someone’s turned out. the water when the thirst has burnt out. all the motions of the darkness hugging tightly in the madness. someone’s laughing while I burn out the only memory left to turn out this weak smile. the moment when i learn how to turn the blade that let my lungs shout. breathing deeply. as it gushed out. safe in silence. as i poured out. my own emotions on the floor. i deep red just like my soul. he took it from me. so i had to take back my only chance at starting back to where they know me. where my soul can find some peace and not be wholly, saddened by the one who marked me. i’ll go back to the darkness. i don’t want to the see the light. no ones watching. this is the perfect night. in the bathroom? in the closet? in the car? or on the floor? i can’t take it. stop it. not that. i wish i was stronger…but there’s no one ever at my door…except the sadness, and the heartache. the painful torture of the pieces to take the mistakes, the bad decisions, the regrets, and irreversible lessons. but in this silence. its complete silence. the voices are only murmuring my name. no one’s watching. no one cares. If i took a stumble purposefully down the stairs…no one’d catch me. no one would run..except away. because i’m a freak. i’m me. i’m a death trap in a death trap without a death trap or a map to find the way to free myself from the silence. its complete silence. its so loud that i yell to stop the silence. its madness. its shame. its a miracle when the pain. slowly eases. and i see some chance of singing again. but then i open these dirty lips filled with lies and it hurts again and brings tears to my eyes. its the silence. don’t talk. just listen. open your eyes. open your heart. they all tell me these things but it only cuts me deeper. i’ve been cut all to pieces so why not just finish myself off. its the silence. its the cold. its the darkness…yes, i’ve been told. to sit in sunlight. do the dishes. dance with friends. pick flowers. make wishes. take a road trip. run in circles. paint your toes. go out with a coworker. its the dumbest. stupidest. irrational. horrible. lamest ideas ever. i don’t want anything but this pressure to be lifted…to be lifted. break the glass and release the valves. its open now. all open now. i could end it now. i really wish i could end it now. i’d take the moment. i’d take the knife. i’d take the gun. i’d take my life. i’d take this silence and muffle it with silence. as my last breath breathes the breath of new life as i die alone. in the darkness. with no one to say my name.no one to say stop. no one to see the game that its all become. my life is too much and i wish to fold the cards but something inside me tells me its wrong. something deep down inside me wants to wait until tomorrow because it might not be as loud in this silence, the pain will cease. the pressure builds up and i want to sit down. this is a big question to question. is my life worth it? will it be harder tomorrow? will this be easier tomorrow? should i eat first? should i call someone? will this life on earth be remembered in stories or slip away into the darkness like my sadness…like my soul. i want to return to my hole when the days feel tough and leave me longing for the nights resting deep underground. i touch the blade that could save me. slay thy neck and in all senses erase me. but i wonder about the color of the casket. would it best suite me? do i have more thoughts to think of while i ponder. is there more left for me to do. this planning isn’t what i planned and i don’t wish to stand here shaking. so i fall. and i falter. like my heart that i wish to sacrifice on the altar. i just want the end to this chapter and a new beginning to start with the end.
I spent eight days in that part of the hospital that no one ever really goes to. Way off in the back corner–you wouldn’t be able to find it if you didn’t know it was there. I had macaroni and cheese for every meal. I used to love mac and cheese. Not so much anymore. Everyone else in there was just like me. We’d sit and watch TV, in silence, or put together puzzles, individually. That place supposedly taught us how to cope with being crazy, but I think it taught me what crazy really was.
Why?
The pigeon looked suicidal. If, indeed that is, an animal can consider taking it’s own life. I rather doubt that it was, it was just the forlorn look of desperation about it as it lay forlorn in the puddle.
She stepped to the ledge and looked. It was dark but the strings of light were beginning to reach out and pull her down to them. The night was leaving her with an empty chest. It ached for the darkness to be joined with that above. Her toes inched over the side and wiggled in the air. There was no use in feeling the breeze anymore.
This is a hard one, there is so much to be said about suicidal people that can not be fit into a minute.
I will say this though, I feel for all the people who have reached this point in there life, I wish I could reach out to them, to help them. No one should feel so much despair feel so alone, trapped or weak that they feel this is there only option. Which ironically is one of the things which must take the most courage in the world – and that is something to live for.
I got this word twice and I don’t feel like writing the story again so I’m just gonna sit here for a minute.
suicidal note if jiah khan had an amazingly story for newspapers. i was in crri reception reading on a newspaper about jiah khan’s suicide because of her some sort of fight with her boyfriend.
rodents clambering all over the road
waiting for the magical Michelin man
to wrap his puffed arms around their soft
squirrely bodies of flesh
and save them from roadkill corpsedom
Death.
Hatred.
The life in your hands,
You choose,
Your hands
or Deaths hands…