SO.
The fucking truth comes out.
Ironic.

Speeding (it almost deserves a ticket) out of my mouth,
as I lay in the hospital bed.

Speeding, just like the ambulance that rushed me here; to this sanatorium
On 17th and Marshall.
It's almost like they care about more than their pay check.


"Yes mother, I cut. Didn't you notice?"
Sarcasm in my voice.

I've been cutting for 5 years, you've known,
you just choose
to
ignore. Because ignoring is better


Than imperfection.


To perfect your impossibly malfunctioning, alcohol-induced
world.


For me to gain your attention, I just have to try
And kill myself.

Easy enough.


1) Sharp blade----meet wrist.
2) Crimson love----meet cold porcelain bathroom floor.
3) Fading, pale body on cold bathroom floor----meet ambulance stretcher.
4) Ambulance stretcher holding pale body----meet hospital, AKA; antiseptic, get me the hell out of here, just let me die, asylum-atmosphered, hell.

Dammit, I'm still here. I screwed up again.


The truth is out, I cut.

Who knew?


Apparently,

Not

You.


The truth is out, I hate you.

Who knew?

Apparently, OH SOOO apparently,

You.

Did you give a damn? HA!!  Nope.


The truth is out, go to Hell.

I'm already stuck here, that damn quack of a doctor made sure of that, sewed me up, nice and tight.


The truth is out,

I hate me, 

because of this,

I cut me.

When will I die, and the truth come out?



Brian Wagner, age 16. Victim of suicide. "We will miss you."



The truth is in,

Once again.