Musings

It’s become an anaesthetic to be depressed, to break your own skin. The therapy you need is all in a razorblade. If someone notices a little bit of blood, if they see the scars, it’s all worth it. Deeper. Frequent. Obvious. They’re oblivious. If you’re bleeding, you’re not dead. You’re not important. When you take your own life, you’re a sinner, damned. No fault of the parents who didn’t notice, or the teachers who didn’t report, or the friends who didn’t tell. No fault of the people who didn’t care enough. It’s the fault of the child, who sees the shadows and dreams of the blood. The man who tried shallow simplicity, and felt no one notice. The woman who was told she didn’t matter by a father who never loved, and believed every word. The mother, who watches her child lowered into the ground cries not over a dead body, but a ruined kitchen knife. The husband, who starts looking for a new girlfriend because he never noticed the marks on his wife of seven years. The brother who stands silent, rejoicing for the room space. The sister who thinks of inheritance as her own without competition.



Spare a thought for the dearly departed?