"Admission Tickets"

When the officer told me he could put me away, that he was honestly thinking about calling the hospital because what I was saying was making his hands shake uneasily, that the words I was saying were making him nervous--I wanted to cry. Not that I was happy but because I was scared, scared that my parents would hate me. Ninety percent of the time I am the murderer in every relationship, the ones that aren't so bad too. While sitting in the chair in front of my therapist and this police officer I thought about why I was stupid. At that time there were only maybe six days to live, six days until I had planned to kill myself. Then, it was only two days ago, everything rushed away from me. I saw my father cry when he asked why I didn't just talk to them, how I replied choking, "It's hard to talk when everything hurts."

It was surprising on how my mother hugged me after I told her about. . . Everything. How she told me that she was sorry she never saw it, how she dismissed it all, how good at hiding things I was, still am. It was nice how my father also knew what happened but didn't tell me, he just looked at me with the eyes I wished I had.

We were confused on if I was being sent to the hospital or not, which I thought I was. But since my mom forgot to mention that I had literally held a blade to my wrist for twenty minutes before pussing out, I will not be. Next Friday is when my hope starts, the therapist's name is Joy. Funny, huh?

I guess cutting, drinking, smoking stopped being enough for me.

The only way I thought out was suicide.

It was just now that I realized how much my best friend and I have in common, how much he makes my heart shrink back in fluttering flies--but that's for another time.

Maybe, now, things can actually get better instead of just saying things are going to.

But just in case, I got my admission tickets in my back pocket.