The Suicide Diaries: Entry #1

[Bonochick]

***The Diary Of 16 Year Old "Elizabeth"****

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow is Friday. Wait...it is after midnight now...it is Friday. I should be asleep, as I have to be up early for school. I didn't do my homework anyway though, so what does it matter?

Today...I mean yesterday...was not good. Not good at all. My best friend Kim is mad at me for some reason. Ever since Tom started paying attention to her, I have been left behind. That means that I had to eat lunch alone again today. She's so fake now...the way she talks...the way she laughs at every stupid ass thing he says...the way she hangs on him. I remember a sleep over we had awhile ago where we stayed up all night talking about boys. We promised we would never ditch each other for a boy. I guess her memory is hazy. But mine isn't. Maybe I am just too sensitive though. I always have been. I cry a lot...I have never seen Kim cry. She is strong, I am weak. I think that is why we go so well together. I kept her from being a hard ass, she kept me from being a wussy crybaby. With us being apart, she's turning cold. I guess that means I'm going weak again. I crumble a little more each day.

The scars, Diary...the scars. When I'm sad, they show more. When I feel weak, they stand out. They mock me...they want more decorations...more lines! More curves! More blood! They make me cry...THEY make me weak. Or am I just looking for someone to blame? Yes, I do mean someONE...they are a person...not literally, but they encompass so many attributes of being human. They talk to me...they tell a story...they can change my mood...they make me awkward, self-conscious. They're my battle scars. Life is my battle. Life Scars.

They need company.

Goodnight, Diary.

"Elizabeth"

------------------
Trust In God...But Lock Your Doors

[This message has been edited by Bonochick (edited 09-27-2001).]

 

[The Wanderer]

not my business really, but i would suggest not to give up on your friend... or let her give up on you... or let her give up on herself... or something like that...

your writing is so pure and vivid in this, wish i could read more, unfortunately

------------------
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

-Sylvia Plath

 

[The Wanderer]

The scars, Diary...the scars. When I'm sad, they show more. When I feel weak, they stand out. They mock me...they want more decorations...more lines! More curves! More blood! They make me cry...THEY make me weak.

I'm not trying to take pleasure in your anguish, but God damn I love those words, that's so potent, it just reached out and smacked me in the face when i read it

 

[brettig]

These words do indeed scorch the page...scorch the soul...

Indeed Wanderer, these are the types of words one aspires to produce- memorable words...words that cause us to ask for more from the author, and ourselves.

That was memorable, bonochick

 

[BabyGrace]

...

BChick you're an amazing writer and I only hope it helps you to figure stuff out a bit the way it does for me..

that piece was so emotionally pure, thanks for sharing it and remember, you are not alone



------------------
but for the grace of love I'd will the meaning of heaven from above...

 

[LarryMullen's POPAngel]

Told you I'd come!

Wow, that was really amazing BC! Very expressive, very emotional...amazing how we can work through so much with writing.

[This message has been edited by LarryMullen's_POPAngel (edited 09-29-2001).]

 

[mad1]

Its cold outside and the streets are busy
Its cold inside and the TV's on
The bed, a mess, the pictures broken
A sliding mess of make-up bashed against a wall
A floor full of dresses no longer....no good
A painful anguish cry hidden beneath a swinging lamp in a corner
Pretty eyes spoilt by the beauty of tears
Surrounded by black, harsh heavy mess
Hands that hide a face full of fear, terror and hurt
A body cruelly scarred by those very hands
A mind thats not thinking
...only empty
Shoes with heels half-kicked into a twist

A window, a net curtain
The soft wind calling her name
She no longer hears herself cry
She is beckoned by the call of the wind
She stands and walks
...and walks.....
stepping up.......
Eyes closed, no prayer..no thoughts
No looking down, just a happy, contented smile, and shes going home
The past, she yearned for
The present, she was confused in
The future, she no longer needed to know............

And the TV went silent, as did the entire room

.....just the sound of distant traffic....outside.....

far far outside