She was twenty-five the moment
She Decided not to let her
Illness Kill me; She had declined
To let herself slowly become
A martyr to that tragic call.

When it felt like her life was broken, headed
Downhill, when she was seemingly
lost in the wilderness Without
A purpose or hope inside her
She always reminded herself
Of that choice.

She was afraid of herself sometimes
Because mental illness had killed
Far Greater minds than hers.
Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath
Always haunt her with their rocks in their pockets,
Their heads in ovens, and their gunshots.
But she was a persistent little bitch
Who was never good at taking
no for an answer, even from
her own insanity.

She always declared aloud to herself that she would
Be just damn crazy enough
To fight fiercely when that ugly black dog
Came lumbering towards her soul.
In that moment, she knew the bastard
Wouldn’t be able to kill her with her own hands.
She determined that her future would not be
A head in the oven, a bullet to the skull, or rocks
Sinking her down into a cold lake.

When her name was written down in the Grim Reaper’s
Black Notebook in red blood,
She had already decided
That it would not be written there by her.

– Hannah Searsy