Slit wrists, crimson trickles…

Laying on the bathroom floor.

Slumped against the wall.

Somewhere in between—

You know, here and there.

There’s a certain emptyness…

A certain quietness that takes.

Like when you’re just between

falling asleep and being awake.

Where pain is no longer lingering.

And your eyes are so, so tired.

Your head is heavy.

Bones weary.

There’s a feeling of being complete.

A feeling of accomplishment.

Of being satisfied:

“Now I finally rest...”

That day I perished.

But I failed to die.

Family rushed in.

And scooped me up.

They were terrified.

The following day—

Or maybe that night…

I woke up in a cold place.

A hospital with white walls.

And pale sheets far too thin.

The sadness, the defeat, the sorrow.

That too sunk deep into my bones.

The trauma of what I tried to do…

And well.

I woke up to find…

That part of me had perished.

No, I wasn’t dead.

I didn’t die.

I’m here.

But this small piece of me—

You know, that was broken…

It went on into another life.

From then on, I learned.

Some things are better broken.

That’s how I got these black wings.

Some things are better left as is.

That’s how I earned my scars.

And some things need love.

That’s how I got where I am.

I. Love. Me.

I’m alive.

I’m okay.

I’m here.