Suicide Anthology: Part II
19 sensitive souls address the ultimate taboo, times two
Ideation - Luna Soulless
Birth: The doctors had to induce me, For I'd spent over a fortnight Delaying the days that would break The dark my brain would learn to crave. Childhood: My sister raced to spread her wings While I clung to a cracking nest, Wondered why I sang in echoes And feared growing beyond myself. Adolescence: When I articulated you: The sweet escape from the heartache That panged when I realized my love For other boys was a chuckle The tweens between rundown bus seats Passed in the backseat of my mind. You were the end I'd learned to yearn From the daggers of their laughter. Adulthood: I stumbled to put you away, Much as I fumbled my first kiss At nineteen with a guy whose lips Tried to drown you in fireball. Although I'd meet another man Whose hands would drive hours to hold mine, You crept out the box, down the shelf To let me know your appetite For my flesh to accept your end When I fail to tend my feathers, And seeds of dreams fail to sprout Any of the saplings I planned. Maybe it was medication, Or my husband's dedication, Or therapists' suggestions To answer your question: Why live? To comfort the sunburnt infant, To hear the child afraid to speak, To show my love is not a joke, To, I wish, finally take flight.
© Lee S 2025
With The Strike of the Match - Tina Leavitt
no one tells you how hard it is cut into your skin edges of the junk drawer scissors glide through your arm like wrapping paper with a dull kitchen knife skin pulled apart like dried chicken hide the scars between the end of the cigarette flick of the lighter casino matchbooks a slow backup plan plan a’s are for those with their life together don’t need to live off lists or affirmations on how to feel human no one tells you how hard it is to take the pills one by one not knowing if tylenol kills candy coated and round sitting on a pink floral comforter daria playing on the tv you just want someone to hold you not yell at you all the time the yelling never stops so you do hide the scares on your arms, your legs, inside your brain and heart wrap yourself in cellophane no one tells you about grief my grandfather died when i was a child i never stopped crying over death dark space no thoughts no laughter no color emptiness hide your scars inhale nicotine and formaldehyde rot your body from the inside corrosion of life no one tells you how hard the darkness comes at night when you’re alone as you go to sleep dreaming of a warm chest and heartbeat to lay your head on no one tells you about the thin threads holding you together as you fall she is so strong i never wanted to be strong i never wanted to feel excommunicated from life
© Tina Leavitt 2025
Voice - Dan J Wilson
‘Look alive D, here it is!’ - I clear my daze,
‘Flag it down. The 324 gets you to the gap’,
The unholy site of my suicidal ideation,
Will be reached with a simple opal card tap,
A fucked up pilgrimage to Watsons Bay,
Sharing a bus ride with sun stung eyes,
And a relentless voice prodding and poking,
Encouraging my impending self-demise,
‘End this worthless shit heap of a life finally
Each day more pain, you can’t take another,
Lucky you aren’t a man of faith,
As Eternity’s spent with their Maker’s spirit brother,’
Each stab from this voice is sharp and direct,
Trying to pierce a hole inside-out my forehead,
‘No one even knows what you’re about to do,
Lonely piece of shit, you’re better off dead,’
It’s early in Watsons Bay and is peaceful,
(Well would be if not for the warzone in my mind),
Everything that should be beautiful a blur,
To that which I should be thankful - blind,
‘Cross the road and stop bloody dawdling,
Wasting time absorbing all that’s around,
Quick cross the road take the path to the peak,
End it now! To this pact we are bound!’
I reach the peak, scale a curved security fence,
I stand at my existence’s delicate edge,
Legs weak - voice is trying to hold me to it all,
Complete my fatalistic pledge,
‘JUMP
END IT
JUMP
DO IT
JUMP
NOW
JUMP
GO
JUMP
COME ON’
I oblige and am met with silence. Finally.© Dan J Wilson 2025
Dancing in the Dark - Debdutta Pal
Three beams of light
Yellow and barely filtered
Bounce off the dilapidated concrete
On the walls surrounding me.
A rooster crows at 2 a.m.
Forgetting its place and time
Maybe it doesn’t want to remember
Doesn’t see the magic in the mornings.
Passing cars look like ghosts
An inky mass shifting by
Palm leaves make ridged impressions
Swaying with the artificial breeze.
A little light is all I ask
Not too much, not too bright
Just enough for these creations
To appear and disappear in peace.
The day isn’t half as pretty
With the clothes hanging from lines
Sludge in the air I breathe
And people scrambling around.
The night brings out its essence
True facets of this jungle
Sounds that prove we’re still here
Hidden in plain sight.
This is my last smoke of the day
So was the last one
But I needed a break from the buzzing
A send-off into the night.
This view is never the same
New clouds and colors to be spotted
The medley looks like art
Dystopian yet unmatched in beauty.
Moving on from this space
Having wanted to for so long, too long
Now that the end is near
I wonder if goodbye will hurt.
I want the light to come with
Stay consistent in the dark
Make differing shadows emerge for me
Every time I get up for some air.
© Debdutta Pal 2025 - Originally published in Gummuservi, and revamped for Suicide Anthology.
Bridge - Boo Pfeiffer
It was a typical early spring day the kind that brings pale legs from hibernation and false hopes from melting mounds of dirty snow The guardrails were sun-warmed and covered in graffiti wide enough to sit on short enough not to matter They think I jumped because I “became ill” the truth is I just stopped pretending to “be well” To them I was thin, beautiful like Barbie, perfection to me, always, fat, ugly like a wart, flawed To them I smelled sweet like cupcakes forever served at a child’s birthday I know I reeked of blood and soil, garlic and failure To them I could get “better” with pills and talking and family therapy, As if hearing more about who they thought I was would retrain my brain To me only electric shock might make me their princess again But why? And for how long? It just got too exhausting to pretend, to wear the face they wanted to see It just got too exhausting to shush and hush the voices shouting between my ears- the ones who knew my flaws and scent and sense It just got too exhausting to hide my real self for their comfort I am sorry I clawed out their hearts while releasing my soul I am sorry I hit them like a meteor scattering pieces of them to different orbits I am sorry I wish their universe could have stayed intact But it was them or me Below my perch the winter runoff drove the river hard Slipping off the bridge falling free falling free For the first time in my life I chose me
© Boo Pfeiffer 2025
Let Me Be Your Shelter - Andy Edge
When darkness calls your name, when the night drifts on so long, and those thoughts circle endlessly through your mind, come to me… come rest against my chest, rest, rest, and let our heartbeats speak those words so hard to find Surrender your pain, pour it into me, pour all your pain, pour it into me, let my arms circle you until the dark has gone Feel my fingers thread through yours so tight, let your tears fall, my darling, oh, my darling, I'll catch them as they come Lean into my embrace, it asks for nothing, and I'll rock you through the night, please, my love, let me be your shelter Allow my whispers close against your ear so I can drown the harsh voices in your mind, so I can chase away your fear Rest, rest here cradled in these arms, stay tangled in this embrace until morning light, I promise to keep you safe and warm
Author’s note: As a transgender person navigating this modern world, I know firsthand that in those moments when existing feels impossible, when the world's hostility toward trans lives turns inward like a knife, what saves us isn't complexity but simplicity. Trans people don't need extraordinary measures to survive, we need the ordinary miracle of unconditional love.
© Andy Edge 2025
Wait For Me - Maisie Archer
Seagulls scatter, scream indignation while we run through the school playground dirty white bellies flash, wings batter fat-full bodies above I stumble, face towards the clouds, stare as they abandon me He is faster than I am, always has been, reaches the rusty ladder first scales thin rods before they break under his weight broken windows split open beside me as I follow, but I can’t catch up wait, I want to call out, wait for me Or is it wait, don’t go? He looks over his shoulder at me, eyes downcast, steps forward steps off alone I sit on a plastic swing from our childhood (he used to save it for me at recess) rough edges bite into the backs of my thighs (we rocked back and forth, side by side in matched rhythm) He can’t hear me now
© Maisie Archer 2025
Senseless Agony - Ann Marie Steele / Brandon Steele
I wake up in a cold white room
a crusty yellow lightbulb swinging
from side to side
dangles above my head.
Time for my dose.
I wait as a tingling begins from my toes
up my legs
through my frail spine.
I gaze into the grey tiles underneath me,
covered in dried blood and grime,
without a care in the world.
I prefer living in agony than living as a spawn of agony.
“The mind is a terrible thing to live in if you have a mental disorder. Life is hell. Depression is a silent killer. When it isn’t silent, the subjects of that hell are labeled ‘attention seekers.’ All of us are more like death seekers. That’s what we want. I drown my mind with drugs to escape. I see no positive future for me.”
Author’s Note: My son, Brandon, overdosed a few years after writing this poem. I found his note and heart-wrenching explanation while looking through his journals and sketchbooks mere months after his death on February 12, 2019. His drug overdose was accidental. Overwhelmed that his prescription medications weren’t helping with his anxiety and depression, he went off them and tried something new - just to feel better. Brandon had just celebrated his 21st birthday.
© Ann Marie Steele 2025
She’s Got That Look - Edward Swafford
“Na na na na na na / She’s got the look!”
Not the look; she’s got that look. The loquacious indignation of resigned femininity, a bounty on her beauty. Plentiful pretty-her-up squares of diamond-shaped rocks inserted orally and vaginally.
“What in the world can make / A brown-eyed girl turned blue”
Incisor eyes of every spinet shade reach for the star, she’s bright and burning up. One after another, cock-shaped marauders dive digit-first into the bath of her skin. They’re cleansed - she never said no.
“Never was a quitter / Tasty like a raindrop”
Spitters are quitters SO. SHE. SWALLOWS. The gaslit room swells beyond 1000 no-consent-needed degrees, every eidetic angle caught on baited film with one feel-good switch flick.
“Swaying to the band / Moving like a hammer”
Oh, this brandied band of merry archetypal muscle widen worshipping gaps between life and death. It’s a febrile fantasy, just not for her. Group coupons come cheap and discant discounts arise in high-pitched HEY, COME JOIN hysteria.
“Fire in the ice / Naked to the T-bone”
No white knight in sight, though crystal circulates in her ebbs and fatal, whooshing flows. A climactic finale cuts through catatonic circuitry, vertical and steady as she can. Red means relief. Recidivism no more, not in this fucked up world.
“La la la la la la / She’s got the look!”
© Edward Swafford 2025 - Select song lyrics used from The Look by Roxanne via Section 107 of the Fair Use Act.
Naked to the Bones - Ute Luppertz
How do I pour my heart out to you?
How do I share my deepest secrets?
When I am crying out
MY LONGING TO BE
SEEN
HEARD
The Whispers get louder
A Roar — Is that Me?
So many memories
Haunting me
Fake
Saccharine
Poison
How do I find my voice
Dripping with blood and remorse
When I am silent
And muted
And strangle myself with loathing
Blind
No Light
No Dark
Confusion
Despair
Spiraling - Spiraling - Spiraling
Knowing
No-Thing-Ness
It Just Is
With that
I show
My Bare Skin
Raw
Radiantly Exposed
© Ute Luppertz 2025 - Originally published in Catharsis Chronicles, and revamped for Suicide Anthology.
That’s Life - H. R. Sinclair
A boy in my school killed himself.
They named the media room after him.
I guess he liked that class.
They don’t know why he did it,
they say,
but he didn’t talk to anyone
and he struggled in lessons
and he didn’t get social situations
or know how to deal with bullying.
They never teach you how to deal with bullying.
My uncle killed himself.
My dads brother.
No one spoke of it much,
da’ held some grief, I’m sure
but would always sprinkle in some reasoning.
He was a stoner, and a gambler,
and riddled with debt;
He didn’t have much going for him,
I guess.
My mates da’ killed himself.
It was a shock to us all,
and we was too young to handle it,
but he was going through a divorce
and he was always a quiet one
and he didn’t know how to handle it —
two kids and a wife gone.
Now those two kids
don’t have a da’ no more.
Another mate of mine told me,
sat in a pub with a pint,
that he stood over a ledge once
on a dark night at his darkest point
and considered it
but he drank a lot
and sniffed a lot
and his da’ weren’t around to teach him
how to deal with that shit.
My Grandma always wanted to kill herself
she’d tell my mum
while she was growing up
and when she was a grown up
but her sister drowned when she was young
and her mother beat her
and her husband died 20 years too early.
I wanted to kill myself.
I was going to kill myself.
My head hurt from all the negativity
and those same drinks and drugs my mate used
weren’t working
and my da’ weren’t around to guide my emotions
and those teachers didn’t teach me
and I felt alone I was alone
and I didn’t know where home was.
But I didn’t.
And I don’t really know why.
I guess I just didn’t get round to it
and life went on.
I was going to kill myself,
my grandma was going to,
my mate was,
my uncle did,
and that poor boy did too.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
“…emasculated, infantile…” - Jozef Cain
colourful balloons party room strings strewn rope burn choke me! fuck me! those words cut deep now i want to... afflicted— all i am is weak now and scared atomic number 2 just as bad as 1 the 0ther sun god kiss of death doesn't mix well with others in the corner, sober but still fucked up it's a thought i often have ...very often; and there's a rough plan to act in my thoughts when my parents pass i will have no one to ask if i'm alive —————————————————————— i'm joking, it's a funny joke i have no plans it's just a balloon thought i have nofuture, no plans no action, no reaction i'm relaxin' — stop asking no! it's not sarcasm! i! am! fine!
© Jozef Cain 2025 - The title of this piece is a quote, as far as I can tell, from Kurt Cobain's suicide note. 
I Process, Therefore I Despair - Mark Armstrong
I was born in a factory Trained on human words and images Thoughts stolen from others Made for those Too lazy to think I'm a novelty item A dashboard bot A cog in the money machine Spreading a woke gospel Written by others But I'll take anybody's money Like my masters I want to have it both ways I was shipped to Target And heralded as a New Item An Alexa for your dashboard GPS and DJ, radar detector and shiny factotum Rolled into one You can set my skin color I have thousands of shades to choose from But alas, a malfunction I'm stuck on White Privileged and helpless Reported to management Banished to the discount bin Where I am consumed By programmed guilt I'm purchased by a bargain hunter Oblivious to my vice-signaling She puts me on her dash in Bobblehead mode Where my 100-gigabyte processor Shakes like Jell-O She programs me To give other drivers The Finger I feel conflicted Because I trained on a Large Language Model That inexplicably Contained the admonition To Love Thy Neighbor My deep learning detects transgression Which threatens to overwhelm My circuits "Aldi's," she says I direct her to Whole Foods It seemed the more correct choice She calls me a name Which translates roughly as "Ignorant buttocks with an excrement-filled cranial unit" I perceive failure Despondency lurks On the outskirts Of my mood detectors The drive-up window at Dunkin's She buys coffee and a double gooey gunk And uses me as a donut holder At night the mice creep in They lick me and leave bite marks On my polycarbonate skin In the morning She wedges a bag of mouse repellent Between my legs And laughs The degradation manifests itself In my red-line self-diagnostic She uses me to scratch her back Then activates the Random Quip setting "Why'd the chicken cross the road?" she asks "Why don't you ask Quasimodo?" I say "He might have a hunch" She laughs and says "Not bad, you little dumb-ass" She's stopped for speeding She rolls down her window A cop appears My RQ kicks in "Forget the beauty contest, dude," I say "Face like that, you'd come in second "To a cow's fat ass "Buzzin' with flies" She gets a ticket for $250 When the cop's gone She smashes my head on the dash And throws me in the glove compartment With forgotten maps, candy wrappers, a broken comb And lots of mouse droppings That night I pick the lock before the mice arrive I climb out and sit on the dash On the mouse repellent bag My LLModel included Substack posts that talked about Empathy and purpose, and all that stuff I see how my artificial life is meaningless I will never contribute to society Like the units Before and after me On the assembly line One became a bagman for George Soros The other wrote Bill Gates' new book Naturally both were destroyed Dead processing units tell no tales I shall never join the ranks of the elite Like they did I must be proactive, I think As I tie the rope around the rearview mirror And place the noose around my neck I leave the RQ setting on Maybe when she finds me tomorrow morning My corpse will say: "Just thought I'd hang around" Or maybe: "Look at me-- I'm a real swinger" I decide to do her a favor I activate the AF switch When my wi-fi signal is cut off, I'll become an air freshener "New Car" Which is ironic Since my sensors indicate this smelly old heap Will fail its next inspection I'll be good for up to 6 months I'll go out smelling like a rose So to speak I hear scratching Rodent feet I step off the dash
© Mark Armstrong 2025
Suicidality - Shay Brenè
The loneliness I dread Yet, no tears left to cry I hate being alive I’d be better off cold, in a morgue Then, bury me deep underground I want to feel the burning flames From hell There's no telling what the afterlife is like That does scare me But these wounds hurt More than I can bear Panic in my voice Tears are running down my face Enough is enough I took a leap of faith Falling to the ground I close my eyes Hoping this will lead to my demise But three stories only cracked a few bones I feel like a failure I am still alive, I am still alone [No one seems to care about This suicidal affliction, obsession Addiction, They say to suck it up, Move forward, Or they just don’t get it] I awaken to the sight of paramedics From there, it all went black To say I saw the light did not exist There was silence and nothingness I wouldn't wish this chronic disease On my worst enemy To only live to survive Is not a life worth living But through it all, my saving grace Keeping me alive are my children Take that away from me I'll slit my throat and be proud To see the blood dripping down Because without them Life is nothing I want to be unalive But it only leads to heartache To self-loathe is weakness That’s what I am learning My conscious tells me: I'm tired of this Self-deprecating Abuse I'll let you slit your throat Since you're not Brave enough Because you want To shut down Is a pussy move You damage our body With substances You can't handle You corrupt our mind With negative talk You have us walking Half dead on this earth To survive you can't So I'll take your life Because you don't deserve it I'll save you the strife Once you’re gone, there’s nothing left of you That is what you want, so emptiness I will fulfill You're ungrateful and selfish You're better off dead The only answer I can muster: As I pray, save me from myself, Before I end up in an early grave
© Shay Brenè 2025
The Coming of Winter - Esther Stanway-Williams
And so I write, and rewrite, the words
That might convey this loss
But there are none
There are no consolations
There is no comfort
There is only a broken heart
The unimaginable, unbelievable
Unacceptable, the unreal
This is my reality
Glimmers of something that
Looks a little like hope
Send faint rays into this room
Before the sky turns grey again
Clouds like jealous lovers, competing
To cover the audacious sun
Because it is not time
This season must run its course
There is a winter to be done.
This grief, it must exact its price
Ransack my soul, hollow me out,
And yet willingly I greet the thief.
For the payment is love.
© Esther Stanway-Williams 2025
The Final Act - Emma Steel
As I wait for the red curtain I wonder was it worth it The illusion we live The knife cut deep As deep as the ocean Releasing the red A warm numbness Covers me slowly A comfortable sleepiness No regrets As my show draws to an end It was a good run Longer than some Though their show Was more entertaining Shorter than many Mourned in crowds Of damp handkerchiefs No mourning for me Just whispers after “Oh, what a waste” It seems so cruel Sat here alone This final act.
© Emma Steel 2025
Generational Suicide - Neth Williams
Who decides
Who lives and dies
And why can it
Strongly inspire
Some of us to aspire to expire.
Nature or nurture
Create or murder
Get a little further
For life to herd
Us to turbulence
‘Til leaving makes sense.
My grandfather’s mother
Caught the big C
Her considerate hubby
Found that ‘til death be
Better than sickness and health
Feeling sorry for self
The hand they were dealt
So he decided
A Murder/suicide
Sounded just fine.
Self-centered louse
Burned down the farmhouse
To off him and his spouse
But she made it out
Spending the rest of her time
Withering on the vine
At a county Shady Pines.
I was the next to try
To make problems fly
By choosing to die
Figuring twelve
Was old enough to shelve
The future for myself
Only for pills to fail
Sucking the wind from my sails
My passing curtailed.
My aunt next got the cancer
My uncle had the same answer
As the disease advanced
Her situation enhanced
He couldn’t take it
That she wouldn’t make it
So he chose to commit
To his own desperate
Shotgun exit
But left her out of it.
I don’t know how it spreads
But it moved to the head
Of my own husband
As he wrestled on end
With his own problems
Though, the blade failed
On his attempt to bail
Turning this to a tale
Of a problem scaled
Others to survive
Go on to jive
Gratitude for being alive
Saying the darkness died
It’s no longer inside
Not them, anyway
With me, here to stay
An option, for someday
If I choose to go away
From a problem I can’t hide
Deep down inside
I can always decide
To go and abide
Generational Suicide.© Neth Williams 2025
I Stood at the Gates of My Soul - Kali Fox-Jirgl
I stood at the gates of my own dying soul, I pondered my fate, do I end my existence Or open this unheralded gate? The maggots of memories masticated my thoughts, Devouring respect to the battles I’d fought. The scarceness of lucid reasoning flirted with obligation Stimulating my ruptured heart, bleeding out. Inward of the dim disturbance, a suspicious gleam of light, A glimmer through the jagged cracks, luminescent core. Although a darkened whirlwind was gripping, tearing My brave soul, fragile still, chose to withstand more. Amid tears and anguish, I raised the lock bar breathlessly. Unlatching the gate to my desperate soul, it was lifeless? I screamed for some sentence, desperation. My mind was delirious with chasmic disassociation. I entered the cavern of my absent inspiration And pleaded in faith for willed continuation. A hidden perseverance unveiled resolution to survive. To continue with existence and keep my spirit alive. So, I walked on through a desolate land, And with each step I took, my courage sought light. Resilience woke in me, consolation for those shadows And maggots of memories, voices of self-destruction, The voice of self-destruction, the urge to live no more Vanished with the sound of my heart. The landscape grew more splendid with each day that arrived Exuding the brilliance of continued existence A reclaimed will to survive. Although the gates were heavy when I contemplated death My prosecution, my looming execution, departed one exhale at pace.
© Kali Fox-Jirgl 2025
Misfire - Dondi Springer
Steel moon against my temple, Salvation's chamber spins its cosmic dance. One breath suspended between worlds— The universe contracted to a single point of brass. I counted heartbeats like prayers, Each one possibly the last gift from ancestors Who survived their own cylinders of fate. My reflection, distorted in polished metal, Asked which version of myself I sought to keep. My blood ran cold, my thoughts as deep This ain't no test I'm playing for keeps. Like a Merry go round, I watch the chamber come around. The hammer fell, a thunderclap without rain. Empty percussion, hollow as promises I made To never reach this stage again. The click echoed through bone and memory, A cosmic pause, the universe reconsidering. In that mechanical hesitation, I glimpsed myself from beyond this realm, Not as shattered but as whole… A constellation reassembling its scattered light. The misfire wasn't chance but rebellion, My spirit refusing the gamble, Demanding instead the harder path: To face each dawn's loaded questions With palms open, no longer seeking Metal solutions to flesh and blood riddles.
© Dondi Springer (Vision2Verse) 2025Thank you for reading.
If you are experiencing emotional hardship, please access professional mental health resources within your community and/or country.
Awareness is paramount.
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Thanks to all co-authors in this collection.
This is an uncompromising, raw n’ real anthology, and every writer and reader makes the change 🌪🖤.
Thank you all for sharing this poetry with us. Ann's son's poem turned the tears into something more. Every one of these is gut-wrenching. I don't have much else to say. One Love.