The Itch

It’s there all the time, underlying. I can feel it every day no matter the mood. Happy, sad, angry, content, relaxed; it’s always there. Death. Wanting to die is not something that comes and goes. It’s not scary, it’s a relief.

The problem is sometimes the itch becomes so strong your body and your mind is screaming at you to scratch it just this one time, finally. It swells out of nowhere; on a late night walk with my boyfriend, during a talk with my mother, having a laugh with my siblings. I can’t bring myself to hurt them by taking my own life and that’s why I’m still here. Imagining putting my family through another death and remember the heartache that comes with it.

So in night when the itch swells so bad that it would be all to easy too scratch I lie in bed not permitting myself to move and thinking only of my family. I lie there until I fall asleep or until the itch goes back to the usual dull roar somehow even though I don’t believe it, convincing myself that me being alive is better than not breathing.

Until the itch swells again.



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