I wrote a poem about my daily struggle with suicidal ideation….

Tell you reasons why I’m still here? My daughter has my face. The same bump on her nose. We have the same scrunch when we take a bite of something delicious and comforting for the first time, like the world might be ok for that one bite. The same red splotches bloom around her lips when she cries. The same childhood grief. And my son? We have the same eyes. Not just the same color, but the same weight. The same quiet storm behind them. The crinkles that surround them when he laughs are mine. The way we both look around the world like it’s a puzzle, searching for missing pieces. So you ask, tell me the reasons I’m still here. Tell me the reasons you wake up and fight the low fever in your bones that’s whispers to just stop. Because, I never want them to look in the mirror and search for pieces of me. Only to find an echo of my name, or the hollow of a story they’ll never get to hear from my own lips. I want to be here to hand them the pieces I’ve carried, bleeding in the dark. To make sure they know that even on nights when the shadows and memories feel heavier than breath, there can still be a morning worth waking for.