what tomorrow brings.

ix. june seventeenth, two thousand and eighteen.

ix. JUNE SEVENTEENTH, TWO THOUSAND AND EIGHTEEN.

ring ring ring. ring ring ring.
hello, no one is available to take your call. please leave a message after the tone. beep.

i tried to write down my emotions in a way that would leave me happy, but it only ever drained me. i got caught up in numbers and what it all could come to. my sadness turned into depression, my nerves turned into panic attacks on the daily. i tried showing my best image even if it was fake, i was fine as far as you knew. but suddenly, words weren't read the same, poetry became who i was. rhyming stanzas, crying until my eyes swelled behind computer screens. broken bones hurt less than what i felt inside, breathing becoming a constant battle. starry nights lead to digging, finding a way to feel something, but not close enough to dying. you, you watched from afar. you told me everything would be okay, happiness isn't all it's made out to be. i fell to my knees, screaming, sobbing, admitting to the fact that death was loudest thought i had ever had, repeating like a scratched record. it ate away at my eardrums as i watched trains pass by on rattling tracks, wondering when i would have the courage to jump in front of it. dreams where i stood on the tallest skyscraper, my toes folding over the edge, the wind flowing between fingers. it was the jump, the push off as people watched, maybe afterall i am an attention seeker. just like you called me the same night i stole my mother's car keys, driving down the road in hopes my arms would jerk one way and suddenly i would be flying through the window. car rides after, i never wore my seatbelt. you told me that maybe some people were born to die and i told you that i didn't, or maybe i did and i only told you this so you no longer had to worry. i tried the liquor my father hid under his pillow, i tried the pills that would change the way my brain made me, i became the comfort within negligence. i lost count on how many suicide notes were wrote out only to be lit up into flames the morning after, the nights i fell asleep with a heavy chest and awoke emptier than the jar of all promises kept. it's odd, the art that comes from pain. the irony in sadness. the home that is built more in graveyards than in your own skin.

i never wanted to write words that made people feel such a deep sadness that they felt like they were drowning. i never asked to carry around broken shards of a soul that will never be pieced back together again. i don't want to be alive as much as i try to find reasons to be.

maybe that's the problem after all. i'm fighting a war with myself and only one side can win. i've been stuck in these blood covered trenches for too many years, i'm growing ill. weeds instead of flowers are consuming my lungs, mold growing in the back of my throat. maggots crawl in and out of the bullet wounds in my heart, bandaids fall from bruises that still haven't healed from the words spilled from my father. i look in the mirror and i don't recognize who is staring back, i can't even grow the courage to ask what have i done to myself.

i flip through old notebooks, coffee stains and tears that haven't dried remind me of the outweighed number of days that were spent coddled in depression rather than in a smiled infection. i was thinking about harming again, my poetry is only about my old friend death, yet you still seem to be blind to this way of seeking help. it's gotten bad again.

and i want to die.

you may now hang up to contain your message. to receive your message, press two. to record your message, press three. to send your message and return to the main menu, press four. to return to the main menu without sending your message, press five. to-

beep.