Between the Lines (after midnight poetry; literally my thing)

Reading between the lines like it is air
Words rammed down my throat
He doesn’t care
The only thing left certain
Life isn’t fair

It’s coming
And reason for not running
The sun is cunning
And every bullet gunning
For his lies

Watch hope paralyze
Synonyms wrapped around her thighs
An angry moon gone
How tides rise
Lost in the etheral never
A downside

Removing stingers from my pride
Every dawn that’s coming
A death guide
The way graves are overturning
A dead bride

And do they come in three? A suicide?

© Delia Ross. 2021. / @poeeternal

Something I learned in college when I was studying psychology, year after year after year (and then I earned my science degree and loads of debt. Knowledge is expensive. Here’s some free).

Suicides always come in 3 and the more popular a person is who dies by suicide, the more suicides will occur or be triggered.

And that stuck with me. Because my best friend died by suicide. But two months before she died her first boyfriend and the first guy she ever kissed died by suicide and they are buried near each other. Several years after they died, her mom died by suicide. Now all three are dead and buried near each other in the cemetery (mom and daughter side to side – fucking gut me).

“Suicide comes in three”.

But then think about how the Bible is brainwashed onto loads of the population and we are lovebombed with Christianity as young children; one story they shame us with is the story of Judas and suicide. The narcissist wants your money so bad be it via porn or religion, that they will make you believe by gaslighting your existence, that dying by suicide is actually criminal in the afterlife.


These narcissist will destroy everything about your reality and take your money while doing so. They have no remorse. They live rent free.

We’re slaves to the 1%. Life is a mental torture prison. I want out.

So I think about death and dying by suicide, every second of the day, every breath I take.

But then there’s an actual fear of dying.

It’s complicated.

And just because someone is always “struggling with depression”, doesn’t mean they can’t “die by suicide”.

I struggle with the same mental illness that many I have loved or respected in life have died by. Including my best friend.

I have hesitation marks all over my veins. I’m glad you think my gloves are pretty (no really I do). But underneath, scars are ugly. But which scars am I talking about? The deep rooted or physical ones?

I’ve been wanting to get some words by Gavin Rossdale (in his handwriting) tattooed over my arm, but the world has been shut down, I haven’t been able to get to any gigs, and the last gig that I attended on my birthday, I completely forgot to ask him when I was in front of him because, hormones. *rolls eyes*

I have talked about this shit on Twitter tagging him, it’s not the first time I’ve talked about the scars on my arm. Or wanting the tat, with his lyrics, over or covering some or all of the scars/ hesitation marks. Trent had it right. And I have ‘Hesitation Marks’ by Nine Inch Nails on vinyl, because I am a fucking Nine Inch Nails whore and Trent Reznor is the only dude I’ve ever asked to marry me, hello.

I mean I think I’m bad around Gavin Rossdale but I think that I might actually cry or pee if I ever met Trent Reznor. We’ve had our concert moments tho. And the NIN archives have our online thangs. Like, that time message boards existed and Trent Reznor actually talked to his fans and I submitted a question to him asking him if he would marry me along with the musical questions and no, he did not say no. Or yes. He was flattered. And answered my music questions. Anyhoo. Nothing lasts on the internet forever unless you are Trent Reznor – who likes to control the “leaks” of his music. Sometimes he does this by leaving a drive in a bathroom.

So I just had to stop what I was doing because my cat made me have a mental breakdown and having a cat and dog in an apartment is the exact definition of insanity and if they don’t find a new home, they’re going to become victims.

I’m so homicidal and suicidal, I don’t want anything around me. I would rather jump off a fucking bridge, than to have to deal with my cat or dog ever again.

And this isn’t a startling revelation, it’s been building up for over three years of us living here in this fucking hellzone hostile environment that I’m not going to be able to escape from anytime soon. Circumstance has ruined us. And I lost my service dog after my giant neighbor decided to chase my dog all over the apartment complex parking lot. He hasn’t been the same since and I can’t fucking deal with him anymore.

They aren’t my companions anymore and they haven’t been my companion in years, they are fucking nightmares and I’m living in it day in and day out and I am at my wit’s end, like, I need some peace and quiet.

This isn’t what I signed up for. My muscle and bones are beginning to fail me (aging yay), my doctor has issued me a fucking cane, and my pets won’t stay out from under my feet. At first, I didn’t want them scared of my cane but maybe they need to fear it.

God forbid I ever wanna dash to the bathroom. Or sleep. Or take a nice, quiet bath.

Whatever they’ve turned into is the exact opposite of what I need. I’ve disconnected. Maybe this is part of dying or because my mother is an unnurturing bitch BUT all I know is my peace of mind has been destroyed. And now they are my enemies. Day in, day out.

I could avoid these meltdowns if I were alone (like really fucking alone) or had a normal dog and cat. That’s not a dog or cat.

I can’t even take my dog for a walk anymore because he’s scared to go outside, imagine not even being able to take your dog outside anymore. I mean it’s driving me literally fucking mad, it’s driving me homicidal, people are fucking destroying things that I love and I don’t want anything anymore because what the fuck. Fuck everything.

What part of, I JUST WANT PEACE AND QUIET AND TO WRITE, is hard to understand????

Jesus Christ, it was 3:30 in the morning. I can’t even get it then. I need compromise. And animals that are fucking domesticated.

My cat now tears up everything she touches. Loves to dash out under my feet. Screams really loud if her food bowl is near empty. I’m not exaggerating, she has made me and my dog jump up from sleep several times and I’m a war vet. I have to deeply, severely medicate to get any sleep at all, if I’m lucky.

I’m not allowed to shut any of the doors in the house or my cat goes crazy. She thinks everything is hers. She may be the definition of evil. She’s making me fucking primal.

And yes my doctor knows all this. He knows I’m growing SICKER with every breath. Which is why he continues to write me a prescription. But you can lead a horse to water, you just can’t make him drink it.

I know exactly how Chris Cornell felt, when his life was wrapped around his belt and he was pushing that button on that app, to make the lights go on and off, yeah?

And this was directly after a sold out show.

Love isn’t enough. There’s just not enough love in the world. For this reality. This mental, torture prison that we are a slave to. There’s not enough REAL people in the world. Too many monsters. Too much narcissism. Too much lying. Too much fakery. Too much slavery. Suicide says, “too much”. Let the records show.

Just a pinprick can send me into fits of homicidal and suicidal rage, followed by the guilt of existence and crying. Mood swings. It’s odd tho, the thing I likely need the most is a hug to calm me down. I don’t have a safe place.

I don’t have a safe place anywhere, anymore. Or peace of mind. And my ride is down until I save for repairs. But I don’t have a dime to save because everything is going to the cost of living. Rent increase starts next month. Even though all the amenities have been closed down since April of last year when the pandemic started.

Too much.

Every day alive is a crucifixion living with depression, awoke and in a world of gaslighting, psychopathic demons with zero remorse for the things they say or do. But now if I kill a spider because I’m scared of it, I cry.

I’m not even a number. People die and disappear forever. No tomb to erode over time. Poof. Like atoms popping into and out of existence.

Too much.

It’s a pink crystal for health and healing but I can’t find a quiet zone anywhere, at any time, to meditate. Manic.

If you’d like to help support this blog or my creativity, please consider subscribing to my Patreon or OnlyFans. Donations or tips extremely appreciated, too. I am on PayPal, CashApp, and my blog is now accepting donations! You can make one in the box below. Thank you for your support! Times are hard! Every penny goes towards this lifeboat and helps keep this blog afloat and advertisement free (zero spam)! Thank you!


Make a one-time donation

Make a monthly donation

Make a yearly donation

Choose an amount


Or enter a custom amount


Your contribution is appreciated.

Your contribution is appreciated.

Your contribution is appreciated.

DonateDonate monthlyDonate yearly

If you dug this post, please hit the like button or drop me a comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: