I know I’m good at numbers because every day is a math lesson.

I count the days since my last attempt and wonder how soon before the next.

I look at my wardrobe filled with long sleeve t-shirts and the empty cabinets where the pills used to be.

I look at my call log and the number of “Are you really okay?” texts my best friend sends because she’s tired of attending funerals.

We live in a different era, so like those of like minds, sometimes I focus too much on the end and getting there, rushing there.

I’m tired of finding new ways to feel something,

ways to feel less alone and better understood.

I’m tired of tears watering gardens that never grow, dreams that fail to materialize and looking for ways to make this all mean something.

Some call it giving up but I call it having enough and needing an escape.

So in between deep breaths and therapy sessions, I have whispered conversations; talks on how I need to find reasons to live on for myself and not those who’ll be affected, talks on how important it is to count days because I every day I give the scars to heal should count as some achievement.


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