TW: mention of suicide attempt, e/d and s/h
When I took my last overdose, I told my friend.
The one who lived with me.
The one who cooked for me when the thought of food sent me into a spiral.
The one who had been sacrificing her nights to sleep in my bed,
to make sure I was safe.
I guess it is sufficient to say, I was not.
I was not safe,
yet I don’t think I have ever been more cared about,
more looked after.
I miss our nights together,
it was bad but there was laughter.
Leaving you behind was the hardest thing I could do,
I love you to the moon and back but the moon was an egg
and it burst open so there was nowhere our love could lead us to.
Having you pin down my hands
was the most confronting thing you had to do.
I wanted you to know I was hurting myself under the blankets
but same-mindedly, did not want you to stop me from doing so.
So I guess it came as a relief, the day I called you to tell you
I am happy.
But to me, it was the end of a time
where you loved me more
than I loved life.
And it felt good to be wanted.