I’m a girl. I was around thirteen when I first attempted suicide. I wound up in the hospital.
My parents saw it coming, with the cutting and the screaming. But they were still somehow oblivious.
They were mad at me. As if yelling more would help. They grounded me. They told me I was fucked up.
I’m fifteen now, turning sixteen in April. I can go without cutting for 6 months, but then I have a break.
I’m stronger, I guess. They think I’m happier. But I’m fucked up. I’ll always be fucked up, Dad.
You can beat me down until I’m weak but I’ll always be fucked up. Mom, you are the reason I’m alive.
I don’t know what you’d do without me. But I never stop dreaming. This is who I am now. Someone who
seems completely put together. But inside, I’m still planning an escape.
They want to know what I want to be when I grow older. But they don’t know I promised myself I’d
kill myself before I turned nineteen. And sometimes, all I think of is slicing my wrist. Jumping off a cliff.
Tightening a noose and grabbing a chair. THIRTEEN.
How could I fail at the one thing I should be good at?