A poem I wrote at a time when suicide and I had a thing going on:
It’s the middle of the night in her hands,
But for us-it’s the middle of the day,
Dimming life has sunk too early,
She’s not broken but she’s not okay.
Addictions and love affairs turn to aches,
Liberation and heartbreak slips into pain,
It’s tiring to look for clear skies, when
Everyday starts with clouds- ending in rain.
She’s brittle and cold, blurring at edges,
Tearful, she wants to speak yet cannot say:
It’s not that she’s given up with hoping,
She’s just pleading for a reason to stay.
By Emma Cunningham.