TheLamest
Sinister Child
- Nov 5, 2023
- 6
CLICK ME TO READ THE FIRST PART OF THE POEM
Day 15: the sequel to "How to kill yourself in fourteen days."
A poem by: TheLamest
The fourteen days are over. There is no reason left to perform. The lights are off and the air is cold and wet. Comfort is a thing of the past, and you can't remember the name of your best friend anymore. Everything hurts, but you're still so numb.
What is there anymore?
The stage is empty. There's no one left. They're all gone, or maybe you are.
There were reasons to stay.
Your mother would wonder what she did wrong. Her child, her precious child, taken from her in one fell swoop. She wasn't the best anyone could have asked for, but she was yours, wasn't she?
What you were capable of rather than who you are was never what mattered. Both her and I are sorry you ever had to believe that your achievements were worth more than yourself.
Your sister would never be the same. She would grow around it, but there would always be this you-shaped hole by her heart, just around the jut of her ribcage.
She will have kids. They'll look through old family photos and ask who you are. She will try not to burst into tears.
You wouldn't be the same, either. You'd be gone.
No more laughter.
No more tears.
No more failing tests,
Or binge-watching a new TV show,
Or experiencing crippling guilt/grief/all of the above,
Or jumping on leaves during autumn like a child in a muddy puddle.
...
On the fifteenth day you wake up in bed. Everything hurts and your eyes are sticky. You sit up, expecting unfamiliarity, only to find your room staring back at you. Your stuffed animals are still where you left them. The note on your desk is just as prominent as before. You will take a breath and situate yourself, because that will be the thing to do.
Was it all a dream?
On the fifteenth day you will walk out of your room and find your mother and tell her you love her before she can get a word in. You will shake and sob into her arms and she will ask you what is wrong and the only thing you can think of is that you don't want to be ill anymore, because that will be the thing to do.
Your mother will never fully understand you, but she doesn't need to do that to love you.
On the fifteenth day you will eat breakfast after months of skipping it and it will be the best thing you have ever tasted. You will get to school on time and say good morning to the teacher as you sit down, because that will be the thing to do.
The class will seem a whole lot more interesting, and you'll understand it, if only briefly.
On the fifteenth day you will sit with new people at lunch and they will laugh at your joke. It will be the most loved you have felt in a long time. You will let them when they try to stay in your life, because that will be the thing to do.
You never needed to push people away, your illness does not make you unloveable.
On the sixteenth day you will write something meaningful and stare at it for hours after the last word indented itself to the paper. You will find more beauty in what you have not yet discovered. You will keep writing, because that will be the thing to do.
Discover words that haven't been written. Know them like honey on your tongue and love them as sweetly.
On the nineteenth day you'll forget that you were counting in the first place, because that will be the thing to do.
The days will get better. The days will get better. The days will get better.
On the twenty-first day you will laugh so hard you fall over. One of your friends will tell a joke and you will just keep laughing, because that will be the thing to do.
It really wasn't that funny, but it was enough for you. Are you more than enough for yourself?
On the fiftieth day twenty-nine days has passed. You will find a new hobby. It's never interested you before, and you're not very good at it, but surprisingly, you don't even care. Instead of spiraling into believing yourself as worthless, you only promise to get better at it, because that will be the thing to do.
You can't break a promise, especially not to yourself. You'll have to stay to get good at it. You'll have to stay.
On the seventy-second day you will experience heartbreak again. You will wonder what is worth it and what you're even doing here. Life will continue to go on. The days will still pass, the seconds still ticking by, and you will live through it, because that will be the thing to do.
Isn't tragedy what makes life worth living, too? You can't experience pain when you're gone. You can't experience anything.
On the ninety-first day you will blow out your birthday candles and wish for peace. The days are still difficult, some better than others, but isn't that the point? You made it another year. You will do it again, because that will be the thing to do.
You're still here. You're still here, and that's a greater accomplishment than you think. I'm proud of you, truly.
On the two hundred and thirty sixth day something inside you will heal. Or maybe that was on the two-hundred and thirty fifth day. You didn't notice until now that wide, gaping hole in your chest isn't there anymore. And that's okay. You will heal eventually, because that will be the thing to do.
Healing does not invalidate what you went through. Healing does not make it all for nothing.
Someday, the countdown will be nothing but a number. You will learn to love again. The guilt won't claw and grasp at your ankles anymore. The pain will ebb away and you will forget the taste of agony on your tongue. You will learn to live.
Because that will be the thing to do.
Day 15: the sequel to "How to kill yourself in fourteen days."
A poem by: TheLamest
The fourteen days are over. There is no reason left to perform. The lights are off and the air is cold and wet. Comfort is a thing of the past, and you can't remember the name of your best friend anymore. Everything hurts, but you're still so numb.
What is there anymore?
The stage is empty. There's no one left. They're all gone, or maybe you are.
There were reasons to stay.
Your mother would wonder what she did wrong. Her child, her precious child, taken from her in one fell swoop. She wasn't the best anyone could have asked for, but she was yours, wasn't she?
What you were capable of rather than who you are was never what mattered. Both her and I are sorry you ever had to believe that your achievements were worth more than yourself.
Your sister would never be the same. She would grow around it, but there would always be this you-shaped hole by her heart, just around the jut of her ribcage.
She will have kids. They'll look through old family photos and ask who you are. She will try not to burst into tears.
You wouldn't be the same, either. You'd be gone.
No more laughter.
No more tears.
No more failing tests,
Or binge-watching a new TV show,
Or experiencing crippling guilt/grief/all of the above,
Or jumping on leaves during autumn like a child in a muddy puddle.
...
On the fifteenth day you wake up in bed. Everything hurts and your eyes are sticky. You sit up, expecting unfamiliarity, only to find your room staring back at you. Your stuffed animals are still where you left them. The note on your desk is just as prominent as before. You will take a breath and situate yourself, because that will be the thing to do.
Was it all a dream?
On the fifteenth day you will walk out of your room and find your mother and tell her you love her before she can get a word in. You will shake and sob into her arms and she will ask you what is wrong and the only thing you can think of is that you don't want to be ill anymore, because that will be the thing to do.
Your mother will never fully understand you, but she doesn't need to do that to love you.
On the fifteenth day you will eat breakfast after months of skipping it and it will be the best thing you have ever tasted. You will get to school on time and say good morning to the teacher as you sit down, because that will be the thing to do.
The class will seem a whole lot more interesting, and you'll understand it, if only briefly.
On the fifteenth day you will sit with new people at lunch and they will laugh at your joke. It will be the most loved you have felt in a long time. You will let them when they try to stay in your life, because that will be the thing to do.
You never needed to push people away, your illness does not make you unloveable.
On the sixteenth day you will write something meaningful and stare at it for hours after the last word indented itself to the paper. You will find more beauty in what you have not yet discovered. You will keep writing, because that will be the thing to do.
Discover words that haven't been written. Know them like honey on your tongue and love them as sweetly.
On the nineteenth day you'll forget that you were counting in the first place, because that will be the thing to do.
The days will get better. The days will get better. The days will get better.
On the twenty-first day you will laugh so hard you fall over. One of your friends will tell a joke and you will just keep laughing, because that will be the thing to do.
It really wasn't that funny, but it was enough for you. Are you more than enough for yourself?
On the fiftieth day twenty-nine days has passed. You will find a new hobby. It's never interested you before, and you're not very good at it, but surprisingly, you don't even care. Instead of spiraling into believing yourself as worthless, you only promise to get better at it, because that will be the thing to do.
You can't break a promise, especially not to yourself. You'll have to stay to get good at it. You'll have to stay.
On the seventy-second day you will experience heartbreak again. You will wonder what is worth it and what you're even doing here. Life will continue to go on. The days will still pass, the seconds still ticking by, and you will live through it, because that will be the thing to do.
Isn't tragedy what makes life worth living, too? You can't experience pain when you're gone. You can't experience anything.
On the ninety-first day you will blow out your birthday candles and wish for peace. The days are still difficult, some better than others, but isn't that the point? You made it another year. You will do it again, because that will be the thing to do.
You're still here. You're still here, and that's a greater accomplishment than you think. I'm proud of you, truly.
On the two hundred and thirty sixth day something inside you will heal. Or maybe that was on the two-hundred and thirty fifth day. You didn't notice until now that wide, gaping hole in your chest isn't there anymore. And that's okay. You will heal eventually, because that will be the thing to do.
Healing does not invalidate what you went through. Healing does not make it all for nothing.
Someday, the countdown will be nothing but a number. You will learn to love again. The guilt won't claw and grasp at your ankles anymore. The pain will ebb away and you will forget the taste of agony on your tongue. You will learn to live.
Because that will be the thing to do.
