Please don’t darling.
Put down the knife. Put down the matches and the gasoline, the bullets and the gun, the years of guilt and confusion and anger and resentment weighing heavy on your shoulders, that slow you like air resistance, drag you back like his arms took your wrists and pulled you to a place you didn’t belong.
Put down the pen.
Stop drafting that note,
Stop listing everything that has pushed you this far,
Every way that you have been broken,
Stop imagining a world without you, a place where two dates come after your name, and everyone talks about you like a saint who was never really seen before.
I know it is hard, I know that life is
Utterly wrecking you
But you can still write a different ending.
It is never too late to step away from the ledge until you have stepped over it.
Recovery is a daily decision.
You have done this before:
Stared down the barrel of this gun,
Fell to the bottom of this bottle,
Stood looking over this ledge.
You have made it this far, and yes you have only ended up here again, staring
At gritty concrete, hundreds of feet below.
And yes, if you walk away this time, it is very likely you will find yourself here again.
You play chicken with yourself,
See how far you can go before you call it off.
Maybe you don’t mean it, maybe it’s just distracting you from the silence in your head
But then again maybe you do.
Either way you cannot regret mistakes from 6 feet under,
You cannot learn to make better decisions and
Wake up with the sun streaming in your eyes and realise that you do feel ok, and things are getting better.
This is not so much of a poem as it is a letter to myself,
A reminder that
None of this is easy but it is worth sticking it out
If only to find out how the story is supposed to end when the book isn’t shut after chapter 18.
A reminder that I need to value myself as much as my loved ones do,
I need to give myself a chance to succeed before I decide I have failed.
Perhaps I will not put down the pen -
I’ll just write something better.