Everytime I open myself up, and dare tell of the time I attempted suicide, I almost always get this response: "Yeah I tried that once." They have overdosed, sliced open their bodies, jumped from heights and forgotten their wings. They say it so casually, and with no emotional impact. They aren't serious. I know that we are told not to judge. We are forbidden to write off one of these "attempts" as asking for attention. But it seems absurd. I want to speak up, and tell them, "No. You did not attempt suicide. You do not know what it feels like to break apart, and have those shadows slip in through the cracks. I am infected, diseased, and you are a pretty little picture of perfection." I still remember the feeling of my blood becoming razorblades and fluttering through my heart. There is the sound of my knees colliding with cold tile and the small sting of an iv dripping through my skin. The siren's scream is muffled by the walls of bandages and a hovering body looking at lights flashing on a screen. I was scared. And despite the bodies around me I was alone. They couldn't reach me in my gray world. I was forgotten on the broken hand of an antique clock. Time and feeling became lost in the dust. But the pain lingered to rip apart my heart and bloom blackness in my eyes and in my gasping lungs. So how can they say they attempted? How can they dare say they tried to end their lives- when they live and breathe and laugh around me.