I have a theory that not every suicidal thought means you will kill yourself.
That sometimes it’s just the expression you understand to articulate utter exhaustion.
That although you would rather not be alive, you certainly don’t want to take your own life.
That all you really want is relief, and it feels like death, simply not being, is the only relief you’ll ever get.
It’s the reminder, that you have a choice. A choice other than fighting your own mind, your failing body, and your chronically wounded heart. That maybe all the brokenness was meant to shatter a glass, not meant to be fully put together.
The thoughts fill all the holes, the holes everyone else has beaten from your mold. There are no real gaps, every pain, every heartbreak, left something else in its wake. The thoughts.
And as the pain grows, as the frustration grows, as everything but your happiness grows, so do the thoughts. Even when you hold onto the happiness for dear life. Even when you fight to feel it in your darkest moments. The veins that build who you are, can’t hold it for long. They’re too accustomed to the slicing, the letting of everything that poisons you.
Because happiness is a drug, a quick high that you hunt for, and wish you could store more of, because too much at one time, makes you sick. Your body bucks against it.
But the thoughts.