(Tw: SH, mentions of suicide)

The wind blows my hair. I’m standing on the edge again. The edge of relapsing and sticking up a middle finger at getting better. The edge where if I fall I will drown in my own blood while simultaneously pulling the rope to tighten everyone close to me’s nooses.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be broken.

I miss my uncle.

He’d know a fucking lot about tightening motherfucking nooses wouldn’t he?

Anyways: July 13, almost exactly 2:00 AM, 2025. The last time I raised a blade to my skin and yet here I sit with this awful sinking feeling and also my chest is tightening uncomfortably and I need some sort of relief I need my knife.

But behind me I see people smiling at me. People who care. People who would care if I stepped off. So, instead of a blade I take a pen to my skin, to the scars that won’t open quite yet, and I draw a butterfly. And then another. And then another.

34 when I was done. Each labeled with initials. On my left leg the people I know (real life), on my right leg the people who know me (online).

I’m trying my best.

I step back.

(Miigwech)