Jumping off of a bathtub seems like such an easy task doesn’t it? Imagine a shower rod so strong and powerful that even being connected to a rope that intimately hugs my neck will keep me swinging sturdy and balanced. 

Before moving into this home, I made sure that the ceiling in my bathroom was high enough for this moment. I had them hand craft steps in order to get inside the tub because I didn’t want the fall to be “ordinary”. I needed it to be dramatic. 

The house I have is built from tears and lack of compassion. I used to make Facebook statuses pretending to anonymously seeking the opinions of others on how to cope. Trying to weed out who has the right level of compassion for me to reach out and run into their arms for help and everyone failed. Because I had it harder than others, and chose to swing as my way out, I’m probably listed in the dictionary as a coward according to your definition. 

While I was pacing back and forth in my room popping pills, and playing tic tac toe with my wrists, I was losing it. I called you and told you I felt depressed and your response was “lol, girl”. “You’ll be alright”, “pray about it” and all I needed you to do was fucking listen. Listen to me explain again how I didn’t think I could recover from heartbreak. How I still haven’t recovered from my dad beating me, to the punch. Wait, I forgot I was supposed to just deal with it. 

This is me dealing with it. Let’s hang. 



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