This Is My Confession

What is this feeling? Why is that all I can do is lay and stare at the ceiling? Maybe feeling isn't the right word, maybe...maybe it's unfeeling. Everything is muted. Happiness, excitement, even love, they're all diluted. I can't remember! Tell me what it is to be happy. Tell me how to smile. How to make my life worthwhile. I can't go on like this. This...unfeeling feeling makes me hurt. Makes me think I'm lost in my own personal desert. I'm trapped inside of my own head, unable to escape. The walls of my mind are closing in. I don't want to die! I don't want to say goodbye. But I feel like I have too. I've been trying for so long to carry on. When people ask how I am I lie. I say "I'm fine," when really I want to cry. "I'm fine". I've grasped that phrase like a lifeline. I'll rock back and forth, screaming it in my head. "I'M FINE. I'M FINE. I'M FINE!" Hoping, praying that it'll come true. That I'll have a breakthrough. I don't want to think these thoughts of suicide. They make me terrified. Terrified that soon I won't be able to ignore the voice that says "it would be so easy."

How many more times can I force myself to put down the knife? I know each time I do I save my life. But what if my life isn't worth saving? My resolve is caving. I can't take this depression. So this is my confession: I don't want to live any more.

Author's Note

Please note that this is about how I felt several years ago when I was suicidal. I don't feel this way any more. I've always wanted to share how I felt during that time and I thought prose poetry might be the best way (this is my first time writing this particular style of poetry). I hope to add to it in the future but this is a start at least.