Book of Suicide
2003-02-04 21:54:57 (UTC)

the wrists that cry

when your eyes shed tears, you see the glittering puddles
that have formed from shattering against a surface. you
see the frustration, the happiness, the sorrow, the pain,
and sometimes even the hope escape through those
captivating globes that race to hit something real. and
you wonder, if they were wishes, would they come true?
would you be validated to feel as you do? would that be
the okay to give up, or to kill, or to die? or would this
be the final blow that strikes you in the stomach and helps
you to rise up and conquer those fears that have dominated
you for so long? the same fears that have tormented you
into nothingness from what can only be called your
beginning. now i give you this thought. when you punish
your wrist for not being as one would wish, does it cry?
does it weep for understanding, for someone to permit it a
voice to explain its being? does it scream as you do
wanting someone to listen, to believe, to trust, to comfort
you? does it shudder at each swipe? or does it lie
motionless as it silently weeps while you tear the heart of
its soul out? is that your soul? no, of course not, a
soul so full of woe and shame could never belong to such a
beautiful, elegent, perfect being. and yet, you must
wonder at the wrists that cry.