TheLamest
Sinister Child
- Nov 5, 2023
- 5
How to kill yourself in fourteen days.
A poem by: TheLamest
On the first day you will get up from bed and brush your teeth with too much toothpaste and get dressed in clothes you never enjoyed wearing. You will walk to school and stare at the cracks in the sidewalk and the grass jutting out at the sides. The ants will be running along where concrete meets pavement, because that will be the thing to do.
There is so much there that you have never noticed the first time around.
On the second day you will get home from school and sit in bed for several minutes until they reach seventeen and the forty-first second. You will claw at your desk for a pencil, idly trace lines into the journal you keep under you pillow, and try not to think about the burning in your eyes. Briefly, you will consider scanning the room for your phone and wonder if they'd miss you. You will instead clutch the pencil tighter and do your homework, because that will be the thing to do.
You feel as though your presence is a burden and that this is all you will ever be.
On the third day you will think about killing yourself tomorrow. Maybe the day after tomorrow. Maybe even the day after that. You don't think you can make it to the fourth, much less the fourteenth. You will rake your hands through your hair and against your better judgment you will pick up the blade instead of the pen. Instead of word after word it will leave cut after cut, the temporary relief and euphoria will only be chased by that sickness in your gut getting heavier. You will clean yourself up and act as if nothing happened, because that will be the thing to do.
It will not change anything, it has never changed anything.
On the fourth day you will break your first promise to your mother and smoke a cigarette. The kids behind the school offered you one, and with their eyes on you, staring, watching, waiting, you could only choke on your tongue in response. It reminded you of the way your parents smoked, the way the ashtray by the window smelled and how the smoke gave you and asthma attack when you were seven. In the end, you will take one and smoke with them, because that will be the thing to do.
Unlike you, they're too cowardly to jump, so they kill themselves a little every day.
On the fifth day you will stay home, because it is the weekend. The comfort of your bed sticks tighter to your skin and your eyes feel like they have been sewn shut. A notification will ring off your phone, or maybe it's an alarm. All the same, at this point, because everything means the same thing. Get up. You will turn it over from where it lies face-down on your pillow, barely even look up, and set it back down. Eventually, you will get up, because that will be the thing to do.
Comfort is running thin, and you're beginning to find that it doesn't feel like it used to.
On the sixth day your patience will run thin. Your temper will get worse and you'll think, maybe it is the damn phones. When your mother comes up to your room and tells you in that comforting soft voice, "your father and I are getting a divorce", there is nothing left to feel at all. Your eyes will go blank and your thoughts will quiet down for a moment, the prime example of love early on in your life falling apart with eight simple words. You will want to scream and throw the lamp sitting next to you on the bedside cabinet, but instead you will hug her and tell her you love her, because that will be the thing to do.
Please be gentle, it is her first time living too.
On the seventh day you will fall asleep in class. The light fixture overhead could fall at the right angle and kill you. You've thought about that, hoped for it even, but rested your head on your arms and shut your eyes anyway. The teacher's call will jerk you awake and the class's giggles will ring in your ears for the rest of the day. She will ask you a question that you don't know how to answer, for everything in your mind is rattled and mismatched and missing, and you will sit silently until she gets frustrated and give you detention. Every piece of your mind, as frazzled as it is, will tell you to say something back, ask for help, beg her to be kinder, but you will say nothing, because that will be the thing to do.
She will skip by your desk every day after you're dead, and every time her heart will tug with wonder at how she never noticed.
On the eighth day you will cry. It will be loud and ugly and your body will wither and shake with sobs. You will crumble into a fetal position and turn your head away from your mother as she bursts into your room. You haven't cried like this before, and haven't cried at all in a very long time. Her confusion will dissolve into pity and she will hold you tight and try to comfort you as she did before, only you are not a child anymore. Every muscle in your body will tense and you will try to rid yourself of her and she will hold on anyway, because that will be the thing to do.
Despite everything, you are still her child, the object of her love, and always will be.
On the ninth day you will scroll endlessly through social media hoping for something. anything, to give you a glimpse of serotonin. You'll find a video of a cat and consider sending it to your sister, but the two of you don't talk anymore. The two of you haven't talked in a while. You'll get off the app and open up a writing document instead. You will type and type and type, but the words are incoherent and dizzy on the screen. You will keep writing anyway, trying to chase out any feelings of negativity, but will instead hollow yourself to not feel a thing. You will get up and go on with your day, because that will be the thing to do.
You can never write like you used to, the only thing you are good for now is to suffer.
On the tenth day your school will hold an assembly about mental health. Your friends will all sit together with one spot too little and you will move to the front row instead. It doesn't bother you now. It's happened too many times to. They will bring in a speaker and he will move as he talks and make grand gestures with both hands. He will wear a black t-shirt and jeans and half the school won't be paying any attention to him. You'll listen, because there's not much else to do except listen to the kid next to you breathing through their mouth and sniffling every twelve seconds. Eventually they will let you go and you will stand up and walk to the door and hesitate. There will be a table full of flyers for those who can anonymously reach out and talk. Briefly, your hand will hover over it, but you will quickly retract it and walk away, because that will be the thing to do.
It is not cowardly to need help or to ask for it, and being ill does not mean you are lesser.
On the eleventh day you will type "how to kill yourself" into your browser. Instead of anything helpful, you will find the suicide and crisis lifeline. After what feels like hours of hesitation, you will slowly click on their website and sign up for a chat with someone. You will tell this person that you are thinking of death and they will respond in a friendly-enough, blatantly trained way that seems to invalidate all the thoughts of your struggle. You will get more and more worked up and they will ask a question that has you shaking. You will shut off your phone and forget the conversation, because that will be the thing to do.
The person's name was Nox by the way, and they'll be left wondering if you're alive for the rest of their life.
On the twelfth day someone close to you will leave unexpectedly. It will be for reasons you cannot understand and you will beg them to stay. They will leave anyway, and then you promise to yourself that you will never stoop as low as you did in that moment just to please others. Sooner or later though, you will break that vow, because you are incapable of hurting anyone but yourself. You will take the razor for the second time in these two weeks, and start cutting, bleeding everywhere, because that will be the thing to do.
You always have hurt yourself in the end, and your self-hate is your most incurable disease.
On the thirteenth day you will go to a carnival and eat popcorn and watch the clowns jibber and poke at one another. You were supposed to go with your friends, but they ran off and you don't know where they went. You will win a game and get a big teddy bear but give it to the kid that's been eyeing it all day. You will never forget the smile on their face and a hurried, backwater "thank you" as they run off to their parents. You will try to not let it make you sick to your stomach, only moving forward and continuing your day, because that will be the thing to do.
That kid will never know you killed yourself, and you will never be able to experience a moment like that again.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will wake up early and make your bed for the first time in months. You will shower in cold water, brush your teeth twice, and get dressed in clothes you've always liked. You will say goodbye to your pet and walk to school. On the way, you will see ants walking along the sidewalk cracks and a pencil on the street. You will see a razor blade in the grass of someone's lawn and a cigarette butt on the concrete of the driveway. You will get tired and almost fall asleep where you stand, snapped awake by the thought of your parents. What was a what will never be, not anymore. Your thoughts won't make sense and you will want to cry, but instead you will take your phone from your pocket and scroll as you walk. You'll send that cat video to your sister and think of the man from the assembly. You will think about how he probably would've gotten along with Nox. You will think of how everyone leaves and how sometimes being a child and having a giant teddy bear is the greatest feeling in the world.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will go to school and sit through math and talk to one or two people in english. They seem to enjoy your company but you really can't be sure, so you get up and leave the instant the bell rings and ignore any other conversation they try to share with you.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will walk home, slower this time, and sit on your bed for an hour. Not lying down, not sleeping, just sitting, sitting and wondering. You will eventually reach for a sheet of paper and a pen, and will write. You will write about struggle, about momentary triumph, about all that there has ever been instead of all that there will be. You will be fixed and set the paper down and try not to cry but the tears are already boiling over. You will set the pen down.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will leave your house, the note on your bed, and bring nothing with you but the clothes on your back and the weight in your chest. You will walk and walk and walk until you find something of suitable height.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will stand on firm concrete, staring down at something beyond and below. The thought's aren't so dizzy anymore, only a chorus of *jump* and *run*. You won't be sure which one is louder. The view from above is both a bone-chilling nightmare and a simple haze of dreams. Your foot will reach the edge, your whole body shaking with nerves and incoherence, and you will exhale one. Twice.
The second you're about to kill yourself you will jump before you can figure out why you shouldn't. You will go as quickly and quietly as you thought you would, and they won't find your body until the next morning. You will forget yourself as you fall, and you will die before you can second-guess it. You will leave this world thinking of your mother, because that will be the thing to do.
There are no words of comfort where you are going, only the wind whipping across your face.
A poem by: TheLamest
On the first day you will get up from bed and brush your teeth with too much toothpaste and get dressed in clothes you never enjoyed wearing. You will walk to school and stare at the cracks in the sidewalk and the grass jutting out at the sides. The ants will be running along where concrete meets pavement, because that will be the thing to do.
There is so much there that you have never noticed the first time around.
On the second day you will get home from school and sit in bed for several minutes until they reach seventeen and the forty-first second. You will claw at your desk for a pencil, idly trace lines into the journal you keep under you pillow, and try not to think about the burning in your eyes. Briefly, you will consider scanning the room for your phone and wonder if they'd miss you. You will instead clutch the pencil tighter and do your homework, because that will be the thing to do.
You feel as though your presence is a burden and that this is all you will ever be.
On the third day you will think about killing yourself tomorrow. Maybe the day after tomorrow. Maybe even the day after that. You don't think you can make it to the fourth, much less the fourteenth. You will rake your hands through your hair and against your better judgment you will pick up the blade instead of the pen. Instead of word after word it will leave cut after cut, the temporary relief and euphoria will only be chased by that sickness in your gut getting heavier. You will clean yourself up and act as if nothing happened, because that will be the thing to do.
It will not change anything, it has never changed anything.
On the fourth day you will break your first promise to your mother and smoke a cigarette. The kids behind the school offered you one, and with their eyes on you, staring, watching, waiting, you could only choke on your tongue in response. It reminded you of the way your parents smoked, the way the ashtray by the window smelled and how the smoke gave you and asthma attack when you were seven. In the end, you will take one and smoke with them, because that will be the thing to do.
Unlike you, they're too cowardly to jump, so they kill themselves a little every day.
On the fifth day you will stay home, because it is the weekend. The comfort of your bed sticks tighter to your skin and your eyes feel like they have been sewn shut. A notification will ring off your phone, or maybe it's an alarm. All the same, at this point, because everything means the same thing. Get up. You will turn it over from where it lies face-down on your pillow, barely even look up, and set it back down. Eventually, you will get up, because that will be the thing to do.
Comfort is running thin, and you're beginning to find that it doesn't feel like it used to.
On the sixth day your patience will run thin. Your temper will get worse and you'll think, maybe it is the damn phones. When your mother comes up to your room and tells you in that comforting soft voice, "your father and I are getting a divorce", there is nothing left to feel at all. Your eyes will go blank and your thoughts will quiet down for a moment, the prime example of love early on in your life falling apart with eight simple words. You will want to scream and throw the lamp sitting next to you on the bedside cabinet, but instead you will hug her and tell her you love her, because that will be the thing to do.
Please be gentle, it is her first time living too.
On the seventh day you will fall asleep in class. The light fixture overhead could fall at the right angle and kill you. You've thought about that, hoped for it even, but rested your head on your arms and shut your eyes anyway. The teacher's call will jerk you awake and the class's giggles will ring in your ears for the rest of the day. She will ask you a question that you don't know how to answer, for everything in your mind is rattled and mismatched and missing, and you will sit silently until she gets frustrated and give you detention. Every piece of your mind, as frazzled as it is, will tell you to say something back, ask for help, beg her to be kinder, but you will say nothing, because that will be the thing to do.
She will skip by your desk every day after you're dead, and every time her heart will tug with wonder at how she never noticed.
On the eighth day you will cry. It will be loud and ugly and your body will wither and shake with sobs. You will crumble into a fetal position and turn your head away from your mother as she bursts into your room. You haven't cried like this before, and haven't cried at all in a very long time. Her confusion will dissolve into pity and she will hold you tight and try to comfort you as she did before, only you are not a child anymore. Every muscle in your body will tense and you will try to rid yourself of her and she will hold on anyway, because that will be the thing to do.
Despite everything, you are still her child, the object of her love, and always will be.
On the ninth day you will scroll endlessly through social media hoping for something. anything, to give you a glimpse of serotonin. You'll find a video of a cat and consider sending it to your sister, but the two of you don't talk anymore. The two of you haven't talked in a while. You'll get off the app and open up a writing document instead. You will type and type and type, but the words are incoherent and dizzy on the screen. You will keep writing anyway, trying to chase out any feelings of negativity, but will instead hollow yourself to not feel a thing. You will get up and go on with your day, because that will be the thing to do.
You can never write like you used to, the only thing you are good for now is to suffer.
On the tenth day your school will hold an assembly about mental health. Your friends will all sit together with one spot too little and you will move to the front row instead. It doesn't bother you now. It's happened too many times to. They will bring in a speaker and he will move as he talks and make grand gestures with both hands. He will wear a black t-shirt and jeans and half the school won't be paying any attention to him. You'll listen, because there's not much else to do except listen to the kid next to you breathing through their mouth and sniffling every twelve seconds. Eventually they will let you go and you will stand up and walk to the door and hesitate. There will be a table full of flyers for those who can anonymously reach out and talk. Briefly, your hand will hover over it, but you will quickly retract it and walk away, because that will be the thing to do.
It is not cowardly to need help or to ask for it, and being ill does not mean you are lesser.
On the eleventh day you will type "how to kill yourself" into your browser. Instead of anything helpful, you will find the suicide and crisis lifeline. After what feels like hours of hesitation, you will slowly click on their website and sign up for a chat with someone. You will tell this person that you are thinking of death and they will respond in a friendly-enough, blatantly trained way that seems to invalidate all the thoughts of your struggle. You will get more and more worked up and they will ask a question that has you shaking. You will shut off your phone and forget the conversation, because that will be the thing to do.
The person's name was Nox by the way, and they'll be left wondering if you're alive for the rest of their life.
On the twelfth day someone close to you will leave unexpectedly. It will be for reasons you cannot understand and you will beg them to stay. They will leave anyway, and then you promise to yourself that you will never stoop as low as you did in that moment just to please others. Sooner or later though, you will break that vow, because you are incapable of hurting anyone but yourself. You will take the razor for the second time in these two weeks, and start cutting, bleeding everywhere, because that will be the thing to do.
You always have hurt yourself in the end, and your self-hate is your most incurable disease.
On the thirteenth day you will go to a carnival and eat popcorn and watch the clowns jibber and poke at one another. You were supposed to go with your friends, but they ran off and you don't know where they went. You will win a game and get a big teddy bear but give it to the kid that's been eyeing it all day. You will never forget the smile on their face and a hurried, backwater "thank you" as they run off to their parents. You will try to not let it make you sick to your stomach, only moving forward and continuing your day, because that will be the thing to do.
That kid will never know you killed yourself, and you will never be able to experience a moment like that again.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will wake up early and make your bed for the first time in months. You will shower in cold water, brush your teeth twice, and get dressed in clothes you've always liked. You will say goodbye to your pet and walk to school. On the way, you will see ants walking along the sidewalk cracks and a pencil on the street. You will see a razor blade in the grass of someone's lawn and a cigarette butt on the concrete of the driveway. You will get tired and almost fall asleep where you stand, snapped awake by the thought of your parents. What was a what will never be, not anymore. Your thoughts won't make sense and you will want to cry, but instead you will take your phone from your pocket and scroll as you walk. You'll send that cat video to your sister and think of the man from the assembly. You will think about how he probably would've gotten along with Nox. You will think of how everyone leaves and how sometimes being a child and having a giant teddy bear is the greatest feeling in the world.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will go to school and sit through math and talk to one or two people in english. They seem to enjoy your company but you really can't be sure, so you get up and leave the instant the bell rings and ignore any other conversation they try to share with you.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will walk home, slower this time, and sit on your bed for an hour. Not lying down, not sleeping, just sitting, sitting and wondering. You will eventually reach for a sheet of paper and a pen, and will write. You will write about struggle, about momentary triumph, about all that there has ever been instead of all that there will be. You will be fixed and set the paper down and try not to cry but the tears are already boiling over. You will set the pen down.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will leave your house, the note on your bed, and bring nothing with you but the clothes on your back and the weight in your chest. You will walk and walk and walk until you find something of suitable height.
On the fourteenth day before you kill yourself you will stand on firm concrete, staring down at something beyond and below. The thought's aren't so dizzy anymore, only a chorus of *jump* and *run*. You won't be sure which one is louder. The view from above is both a bone-chilling nightmare and a simple haze of dreams. Your foot will reach the edge, your whole body shaking with nerves and incoherence, and you will exhale one. Twice.
The second you're about to kill yourself you will jump before you can figure out why you shouldn't. You will go as quickly and quietly as you thought you would, and they won't find your body until the next morning. You will forget yourself as you fall, and you will die before you can second-guess it. You will leave this world thinking of your mother, because that will be the thing to do.
There are no words of comfort where you are going, only the wind whipping across your face.
