Author’s note: I write this as a reminder to those who read this and feel the way that I do, you are not alone.

His day begins with him considering whether to pull the black covers off his body at the sound of an alarm, or to wait.

He should probably get up, it’s a Monday.

“So what? It’s just like any other day. And no one cares if you get up,” he thinks.

Flashbacks of previous pains fill his mind, almost like a lightbulb when you flip the switch. Previous memories, previous lives.

He knows he can handle it, the weight on his shoulders, the boulder on his chest as he struggles to put his socks on for the day. He can barely look at himself in the mirror without remembering.

With his teeth brushed, the darkness subsides. He might just make it today. The morning, afternoon, and evening are filled to the brim with distractions to keep his mind from his memories. Looks like the clouds are rolling in, it’s gonna be a bad one. Rain pours and his feet drag.

“What’s the point?” he asks.

He skips his 8 a.m.

During the day, you’ll see him in the walkways, maybe even capture a smile from him. If you get the chance to chat, you might notice that his laughter is contagious, like a sick disease of joy; that even for a moment, you might notice some light flicker in his eyes.

You might even see how he draws other people; he listens well to others. Not because his ears can take it, not because his heart can still beat when hearing the death of another soul, no. He just wants to make sure that no one feels the way he does.

He closes his laptop, finding no motivation to finish a paper.

He’s usually found something to do and stress on in the afternoon. Thoughts and music are always in his mind, thinking and analyzing everything, probably on too deep of level to keep a conversation with anybody else.

So, he’ll fake it, afraid of being known as that “weird kid.” Or maybe he’ll just embrace it in an attempt to keep everyone away from really knowing who he is.

Always asking too many questions, saying too much or too little, feeling too much, over thinking. “Oh god, what’s wrong with me?”

He’s always just wanted to be normal, but he knows he’s too smart for that. Smart enough to know nothing really matters.

Always held on a pedestal so high. He’s afraid to fall because he knows if he does he’ll break his neck.

You can’t taste crab legs and sushi if you’re dead. The death of disappointment goes much deeper than a physical one.

He didn’t make it out of bed today.

He might just take the pills prescribed to him tonight, never too many, always just enough. He hates the way he feels after he takes them. Imagine if you were lighter, not in a physical sense, but a more “out of body” lighter. His hands will shake, and his body will not feel like it’s his.

The thoughts and feelings he feels today will not be his, but another medicated boy he used to know.

“I can’t feel anything,” he whispers.

It’s like TV static over your eyes, grey lines and black dots fill the sky.

“Okay, I survived, but what’s the point of living if I can’t feel?”

And as he sits on a cushioned chair somewhere in the universe, it feels like each finger is tied to weights while he types away, telling his story to someone out there. Maybe they’ll hear it and it’ll resonate. Maybe it’ll be a call or cry for help, but by the time it’s realized, he’ll be gone.

He walks up the stairs to his apartment, having no idea what’s to come tonight. He takes off his socks for the day, takes his pill, and pulls those same dull, black sheets over a

scarred body.

Fear not, no harm is done to the body, per se. Deeper inquiry by anyone, however, would show deep cuts from a monster, perhaps many monsters with different claws. An even better detective would see that some of those marks are the same size as his own.

He didn’t get up today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Peering into those scars might show pain of the past, or even thoughts of the present.

He’s screaming but no one may hear, he’s drowning but no one is near. Thoughts of dad that left him, thoughts of the thief of his childhood, thoughts of her and thoughts of who he, himself, might be. Your friends hate you. They lie and cheat and steal.

No one loves you and no one cares about who you really are. You’re not queer enough, not good enough.

As he settles in for the night after taking his pill, he sits in his mind as he stays in a pool of his own thoughts.

His parents don’t care, his roommates don’t care, no one would care if he died. Life is pointless anyway, and the world will go on rotting. Finally, he snaps.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He takes his black belt and tightens it around his neck, finally feeling some relief. There just so happens to be nothing to hold it against him except for his own arm, and he’s too tired to try and tie it to the ceiling fan, afraid it would break, and everyone would know he tried. He would be hospitalized and drugged, painted as a sick puppy that needed nurturing.

For tonight, his tears will fall in almost a rhythmic sequence, and sleep finally overtakes him. For tonight, he survived.

If you or someone you know needs help, please don’t hesitate to utilize one of these resources:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: (call or text) 1-800-273-TALK

Crisis Text Line: text TALK to 741741

Local Resource:

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