Suicidal-Truths

Everyone who does this wonders how weak you have to be to grab that blade and drag it across your delicate skin.I, however, think you have to be pretty damn strong.I mean, emotionally, we're crap, but honestly, we're strong. To cut yourself without an ounce of regret, you have to be strong. Everyone falls off a bike, or trips and scrapes their knee, and they hate going through that. People are scared of getting hurt. But us, we're inflicting pain on ourselves and we don't even care. Like, we honestly should stop, but while you're sitting there, watching yourself bleed, silver blade in hand, wondering how you can be so fucking weak, I'll be wo

"Did it hurt?" I heard a male voice whisper. I was surprised. Who else would go into the woods behind my house. "When I fell from heaven? I've heard that pick-up line before, sorry to say though babe, I'm from Hell." "Funny." The guy said sitting down beside me. I closed my eyes. "You're pretty." He said. "What are you? Eight?" I said looking over to him only to realize, he looked a couple years older than me. "Seventeen. You were close though." he said winking at me. "Brian Key." He said, reaching out a hand. "... August LockHeart." I said shaking his hand. "What were you asking about anyway?" I asked him, scratching the back of my n

Are you serious? How can you tell me not to do something to myself, when you're willing to do it to yourself for a joke? How can you tell me you care, when you leave me alone in my time of need? How can you tell me I'm smart, when you call me stupid because of the way I hurt myself? How can you call me beautiful, When we both know I'm not? How can you call me skinny, when eventually you just agree with me, and say I'm fat? How can you tell me to not give up, when you're giving up on me? How can you tell me you love me, when you hate me because I'm me?

16 cuts. Fresh on her right hip. One, for him and the way he treated her. Two, for the way things were. Three, for the last person leaving. Four, for the way she's been grieving. Five, for never being enough. Six, for a life that's been rough. Seven, for knowing she's going to Hell. Eight, for feelings she can't quell. Nine, for being broken. Ten, for words unspoken. Eleven, for the pain. Twelve, for being in chains. Thirteen, for the hate for herself. Fourteen, from a razor left on a shelf. Fifteen, for contemplating suicide. Sixteen, because she can no longer hide. Eventually some people get to this point where they give up