Every Poem I Write Is Just a Suicide Note I Decided to Make Pretty

 Every Poem I Write Is Just a Suicide Note I Decided to Make Pretty

I’m going to say the quiet part out loud.

Every single poem I’ve ever posted,  

every “deep” line that made strangers cry in the comments,  

every metaphor about voids and black oceans and burning quietly,  

started as a suicide note.

Not the dramatic kind with dates and goodbye letters.  

The quiet kind.  

The kind you write at 3:47 AM when the blade is on the table but the words come faster than the courage.

I never planned to live long enough to see thirty.

So I turned the notes into art.

Because if I was going to leave,  

at least I’d leave something beautiful behind.

That’s the truth nobody says.

Most “deep” writers aren’t deep.  

We’re drowning.  

And poetry is just controlled bleeding.

I have a folder called “Last Words” in my phone.  

It has 187 notes.  

Some are one line.  

Some are ten pages.  

All of them were written on nights when dying felt easier than waking up again.

Then I take the rawest ones,  

add line breaks,  

find a prettier way to say “I can’t do this anymore,”  

and post them as poetry.

And people comment:  

“Wow, so profound.”  

“This healed something in me.”  

“You’re a genius.”

They don’t know they’re reading suicide notes wearing makeup.

I used to feel guilty about it.  

Like I was lying.  

Like I was tricking people into thinking I’m wise when I’m just broken.

Then I realized:  

this is how I stay alive.

Every time I turn a death wish into a poem,  

I delay the ending by one more day.

The prettier I make the pain,  

the longer I can stand to carry it.

Some nights the note wins and stays a note.  

Most nights, I open a blank page and start dressing the corpse in metaphors.

I have never told anyone this.  

Not my therapist.  

Not the friends who call me “strong.”  

Not even the girl who once said she loved my words.

Because if they knew the poems were suicide notes,  

they’d stop calling them beautiful.  

They’d start calling ambulances.

And I’m not ready to be saved yet.  

I’m only ready to be read.

So I keep writing.  

I keep making the ugliest truths wear silk.  

I keep turning “I want to die” into “I am the night swallowing itself.”

And every time someone messages “your poem saved me tonight,”  

I stay.

Not because I’m healed.  

But because someone else saw their own darkness wearing my words  

and decided to wait one more day too.

That’s the dirty secret of every poet who writes like they’re bleeding:

We don’t write to heal.  

We write to not die tonight.

And if our dressed-up suicide notes  

keep even one person breathing longer,  

then the lie was worth it.

If you’ve ever turned your darkest thought into something pretty just to survive the night,  

if you’ve ever posted a poem that started as a goodbye,  

if you know exactly what this feels like…

Drop a 🖤 below.

No explanation needed.

We’re keeping each other alive  

one pretty lie at a time.