_(Angst. Also sry for not posting lately. Have a wonderful day! Sry not a poem and very messily/badly written.)_

***TW: implied suicidal thoughts and thoughts of sh (self harm)***

I’m sorry. I need help. The pill bottle was suddenly opened and a pill was in my hand, no, I can’t, I made a promise not to. I wish I never made that promise sometimes, actually, a lot of times. Yet, I still follow it like it’s a shepherd and I am a sheep. I was to my room and check my phone. It’s 10 and I lay in bed.

At 11 I get a call. I want to talk, I really do, but I feel it get harder breathe. My throat can’t help but close as I try to let out a sob. It’s like a defense mechanism so no one notices my struggling, I just shut up. I self-isolate so people don’t notice I’m acting different. I’m going to be alone again because of this, but at least I won’t have to worry about masking. I wish I could talk, but my mind is stuck on the fact I want to be dea— no umm— different, yeah I want to be a different person.

Now it’s almost 12, and I sit on the floor leaning against my bed like it is the only thing that can hold me up. I want to talk freely about how I need help, but the only thing I feel like I can see right now is the blade across the room, oh, it’s not across the room anymore, it’s in my hand. I want to feel the cold metal drag across my skin, but I put the scissors down, I made a promise after all. I climb back to bed and lay down. I scroll for a while, I even try to write, but my thoughts are incoherent and I need sleep.

I’m sorry to the little girl I once was, she would be devastated to see the mess of thoughts I am now.

I’m sorry to my friends for saying I’m fine when all I want to do is die.

I’m sorry to her because I can’t even communicate anything. I want to, but I can’t. She doesn’t deserve this, no one deserves to live in constant fear wondering if their friend will leave.

It would be easier if I was de-different. Different, yeah, I should be different.