They will tell you this:
"You cannot kill yourself without hurting everyone around you.
You are a coward with a heart so soft a hot day would melt it,
would pin its soggy organs to the sidewalk like a fried egg.
Cutting horizontally means you weren’t brave enough.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it,
it still makes a sound, unlike your existence when you end it.
So you were always alone.”
They will tell you:
“Selfish. Your fault. Would rather give up than get down to living.
The moon looks good with its scars and craters
but leaving permanent ones on your own skin is ugly. Unsightly.
Scares people away.
Your sadness is a straitjacket
you should just learn how to slip out of.”
But what they don’t understand is that it’s actually more freeing
than being tied down and belted in by numbness.
That wanting to kill yourself is a burden
you would rather not place on anyone else
but you already think your own life is a burden
so according to your mistaken thinking,
ending it would lighten the load for everyone you love.
That sometimes the hand that picks up the razor
is stronger than the one that points the finger.
That you were never a coward, never selfish nor to blame,
just looking for a little peace of mind.