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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: depression

  • Translating What I Feel | A Poem About Creativity, Emotion, and the Writing Process

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with an image.

    Not a line. Not a metaphor.

    An image.

    A single figure standing alone, staring into the distance like the opening shot of a film.

    At first, the poem exists entirely outside the body. The speaker is observed rather than understood. We see the wind. The trees. The dirt beneath their feet. We hear a voice describing loneliness from a distance.

    Then the question arrives:

    “Is that the truth or the depression talking?”

    For me, that’s the moment the camera moves.

    The poem stops observing the speaker and starts inhabiting them.

    Everything before that question is external.

    Everything after it is internal.

    The scenery gives way to self-examination. The loneliness becomes less important than the act of interrogating it. The poem begins pulling apart its own construction, examining how emotions become images and how images eventually become language.

    In many ways, this piece accidentally became a poem about my entire creative process.

    I’ve spent twenty-three years translating feelings into words.

    Not just the dramatic emotions. Not just love, grief, or heartbreak.

    Everything.

    The strange moments. The passing thoughts. The questions that linger longer than they should.

    The title came from that realization.

    Because that’s what poetry has always felt like to me.

    Translation.

    An emotion enters one side of the mind.

    An image emerges from the other.

    And somewhere in between, a poem happens.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary poet stands by the shoreline at dusk as ink transforms into waves and moonlight, symbolizing emotions becoming poetry.
    Every poem begins as a feeling before it becomes a language.

    Translating What I Feel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand, staring into the distance,
    alone in this instance—
    it’s just me and the breeze,
    running through the trees.

    I can feel cold dirt and stone
    beneath my feet.

    Wind brushes skin,
    feather-light
    like finger tips—
    it reminds me
    of how alone I am.

    Is that the truth
    or the depression talking?

    Because sometimes
    I feel alone
    when there are people
    around me.

    That last stanza
    moved like the tide.

    A long line—
    followed by one shorter,
    then longer again.

    Even when I don’t say it,
    the ocean imagery arrives.
    I don’t even have to try—
    it just pours out of me,
    like a dam breaking.

    Everything held back,
    rushes forth as the pen
    hits the page.

    You get the opening lines,
    that’s where the truth slips.
    Mid-stanza
    is where the truth sits.
    Then one or two lines
    to really make the truth hit.

    You see—
    this is the creative side of me.
    I feel something then translate it
    inside of me,
    from data to image
    then I spit it in ink on the page.

    I’ve spent 23 years
    translating what I feel—
    love, loneliness and rage…

    happiness and pain.

    Two sides of the coin,
    they’re different
    but the same.

    So there I stood…

    staring into the distance,
    unsure if I was alone in that instance—
    it was just me and the thoughts
    running through my mind.

    Slowly being translated
    into poetic lines.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where Music Becomes Weather]
    Some songs feel like storms. Others feel like shelter. Where Music Becomes Weather explores how music shapes emotion, memory, and the landscapes we carry within us.

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • The Mind’s Winter: A Poem About Emotional Withdrawal, Overthinking, and Missing Someone

    Rowan Evans

    This wasn’t planned as part of the current sequence.
    Some things just need to be written–and shared–when they happen.

    Author’s Note

    There are patterns we don’t always notice until we’ve lived them more than once.

    The same thoughts.
    The same timing.
    The same quiet retreat inward.

    The Mind’s Winter comes from recognizing one of those cycles in real time–watching myself disappear into my own head, knowing it’s happening, and not always knowing how to stop it.

    It’s strange, being both the one experiencing something and the one observing it. To understand the “why,” but still feel pulled into it anyway.

    This piece isn’t about solving that pattern.

    It’s about naming it.

    About acknowledging the way overwhelm can turn inward, how distance can grow even when you don’t want it to, and how sometimes the things that matter most are the very things that scare us into retreat.

    And maybe, in recognizing the cycle…

    there’s a chance to break it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands in a quiet winter landscape, surrounded by bare trees and falling snow, symbolizing emotional withdrawal and introspection.
    Sometimes the cold isn’t outside—it’s the space we retreat into when everything becomes too much.

    The Mind’s Winter
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    February 8th, 2026—
    I got sick again.
    It happens every year
    like clockwork.
    It starts with the headache,
    caused by being overwhelmed.

    It starts slowly,
    then snowballs
    into more.

    You see, this period of time—
    it usually comes after
    what I tend to call
    the mind’s winter.

    I slip into a deep void
    of thought.

    January 8th…
    that’s the date.

    That’s when I drift inside.
    I get lost in my mind,
    and I stay there—
    one month—I’m gone.
    Lost in thought.

    One month
    leading up to my “big day,”
    the one they say
    should celebrate me.

    But I don’t see it that way.
    It’s just another day.

    And usually,
    I bounce back.
    It’s quick…

    but this?

    This feels like an attack—
    one month in my head,
    two weeks sick and then?

    I broke my glasses—
    vision—
    I lost access.

    And the longer I’m gone,
    the more I pull away,
    even as I—

    want to stay.

    You know what
    the worst part is?

    The worst part is—
    that I know why.

    I know why I do it…
    why I pull away.

    I’ve said the reason
    a hundred times,
    in nearly as many rhymes.
    It’s because you meant
    too much to me.
    I got scared and retreated
    into me.

    So here it is—
    March 21st,
    and I—

    I haven’t spoken to you
    since February 6th,
    and if I’m honest—

    I miss you.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) – A Poem About Turning Pain Into Power

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems are confessions.
    Some are exorcisms.

    This one is alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) came from that familiar edge—when the weight presses in, when the mind contracts, when the darkness feels like it might finally win. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it become something. I let it turn into ink.

    This poem is about that moment of reclamation.
    About taking what hurts and making it mine.
    About refusing to be only what the darkness names me.

    If you’ve ever felt yourself folding inward—this is for you.
    If you’ve ever made art out of survival—this is yours too.

    A shadowed poet with glowing eyes as black ink pours from their hands, transforming into swirling symbols of power in a dark, gothic setting.
    Turning darkness into language. Pain into power. Ink into alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am all sixes when its needed,
    this darkness,
    your hatred feeds it.

    I can feel it—
    crawling up my spine,
    that creeping feeling.
    It twists around my mind,
    contracting.

    I can feel it squeeze,
    as I fall to knees.

    My eyes flicker and flash,
    fade to black—
    as you see
    my face distort.
    Twisted reflection.
    Personified depression.

    Can you see—
    as I begin to bleed ink?
    It pours from me,
    covering fingers,
    hands and arms.

    It twists,
    never relents.

    …

    I’m a motherfucking
    alchemist,
    the way I take my pain
    and change it.
    I’ll write like hell,
    to subtly rearrange it.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Between Worlds – A Poem About Mental Illness, Identity & Survival | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is the closest I’ve come to writing the truth of my internal war without softening it. Between Worlds is about self-violence—the way the mind learns your weak spots, remembers the old wounds, and knows exactly where to cut. It’s a poem about relapse, about memory, about survival, and about the strange loneliness that follows healing.

    It speaks to the years where I wasn’t sure I’d make it. The hospital walls. The padded quiet. The fluorescent lights humming through the silence. It speaks to dissociation, to identity, to queerness, and to the mythic distance I’ve always felt between who I am and the world I live in.

    This poem isn’t a cry for help—it’s a record of survival. It isn’t tragedy for tragedy’s sake—it’s truth. It’s the reality that healing isn’t linear, that progress has shadows, and that sometimes the loudest battles are fought in the mind no one else can see.

    If you know this feeling—of standing in your own skin like it never quite fits, of fighting thoughts with thoughts, of loving your existence even when you question your place in it—then I hope you feel seen here.

    Because none of us are alone in the in-between.

    — Rowan Evans

    Nonbinary person standing between a hospital hallway and a star-filled night sky, symbolizing dissociation and identity between worlds.
    Between Worlds — artwork representing Rowan Evans’ poem about surviving mental illness, dissociation, and identity beyond binaries.

    Between Worlds
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do I
    always try
    to pick a fight
    with me?

    You’d think I’d know,
    by now, just how
    quick I’ll slip
    an insult
    under the ribs.

    I’ll hit
    every single fear,
    twist them
    like a knife—
    until I’m
    on my knees,
    gasping,
    spitting blood.

    I don’t fight fair.
    I target old wounds,
    tear at what’s
    already healed.
    I’ll fuck around
    and send myself
    back ten years—
    back to hospital walls
    and quiet rooms,
    where the only sound
    was the fluorescent hum.

    Where time dissolved…
    where clocks stopped
    ticking.

    But I walked out
    of those halls—
    didn’t I?

    Didn’t I?

    But what if I didn’t?
    What if I’m still locked inside,
    in a padded room
    with the jacket
    strapped tight?
    Thoughts confined,
    so the words
    won’t escape.

    Writing poems
    in my head,
    just to pass
    the time.

    I’ve been alive,
    but dead inside.
    And I’ll be honest:
    I’ve died
    inside my mind
    more than
    a dozen times.

    I just wanted escape.

    Escape from pain,
    from feeling misplaced—
    I just wanted
    to belong.

    But it’s like—
    something is wrong here.
    Why don’t I
    feel like
    I belong here?

    Why does everything feel
    a half inch to the left—
    like I’m living inside
    the echo of myself?

    Like I’m watching my life
    from behind fogged glass,
    palms against the surface,
    screaming—
    but no sound
    passes through.

    Sometimes I swear
    the world forgets I’m here,
    and sometimes
    I do too.

    Maybe it’s because
    every room I walk into,
    I’m half a ghost already—
    too queer, too quiet,
    too soft, too strange.
    Too fucking much
    for everyone
    but me.

    Maybe that’s why
    the fight never ends—
    because I’m still trying
    to prove I deserve
    the space I take up,
    even in my own skin.

    So maybe I don’t belong here
    because I was born
    between worlds—
    not alive, not dead,
    not human, not myth,
    not safe, not ruined.

    Maybe my bones remember
    a home I never had,
    and every heartbeat since
    has been an attempt
    to map
    my way back.

    If you’re looking for more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival) – Rowan Evans Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is not about wanting to die.
    It is about learning how to survive long before learning how to live.

    A shadowed figure in a dimly lit room, reflecting in solitude, surrounded by deep shadows and soft light, evoking introspection and survival.
    Reflecting on survival, solitude, and the quiet strength found in shadows.

    Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I feel like I’m lost,
    I’m wandering.
    Twisted thoughts,
    I’m pondering.

    My demise
    in a life I despise.
    It’s not that I want to die—
    I’m just tired
    of trying to survive.

    I want to be happy.
    I’m alive.

    But my head
    is so full of dread—
    every morning
    a negotiation
    just to get out of bed.

    Body feels heavy,
    limbs lagging—
    everything moves
    in slow-motion.

    Slipping into shadows—
    going home.
    The light has never felt like mine.
    I was born in the shadows,
    raised in the shade.
    Darkness has been
    my mindscape—
    since I was thirteen.

    I learned early
    how to make myself small—
    how to soften my footsteps
    inside my own head.

    I memorized the weight of silence,
    learned which thoughts were safe to keep
    and which ones
    needed to stay buried.

    Survival became a second language,
    spoken fluently,
    even when no one was listening.

    I say I’m alive
    like it’s a defense—
    like survival
    should be enough.

    But living
    feels like something other people do
    without rehearsing it first.

    Closing Note

    I wrote this for anyone who learned survival before they learned safety.
    For those who are still here, even when “alive” feels like a negotiation.
    You are not failing — you are fluent in something the world never taught gently.

    For more poetry, check out the archives: [The Library of Ashes]

  • I Survive (I’m Alive) – A Poem About Depression, Survival, and Choosing to Stay

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a reflection on the long, quiet war I’ve carried inside my mind for most of my life. I wrote this piece as an acknowledgment of survival—not as a victory march, but as a tired, honest admission that I’m still here. Depression and anxiety are battles most people never see, but if you’re fighting them too, I hope this reminds you that surviving is a form of defiance. You’re not alone, and your existence—even in the hardest moments—is a testament to your strength.

    A solitary figure surrounded by symbolic shadows and swirling smoke, standing in an abstract mental battlefield, illuminated by a faint light.
    A visual representation of the internal war between survival and despair.

    I Survive (I’m Alive)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand in the midst of a battlefield—
    not literal, but metaphor.
    And I still struggle to see
    what this struggle is even for.
    There is a war raging in my head,
    between the voice that wants to live
    and the voice that wants me dead.

    That was me at sixteen.
    Now I’m thirty-five—
    still wondering how I’m even alive.
    And though I’ve fought like hell,
    I’m not doing well.
    Yet I survive.
    Even when I don’t thrive,
    I’m alive.

    Alive in spite of
    years of internal torment.
    So go on—
    tell me I’m going to hell
    for the way I live.
    I’ll face eternal torment
    with a smile on my face;
    I’ve lived it already.

    Next year, I’ll be thirty-six.
    Six. Six.
    They say I’m evil in my ways,
    that even the devil
    wouldn’t praise.
    But that’s okay—
    because I’m mentally sick.
    Sick. Sick.

    Depression.
    Anxiety.
    They are the rot
    inside of me.
    I see them with clarity.
    I don’t need
    your pity or charity.

    I just need patience,
    and understanding—
    but you won’t give it,
    because you’ve never lived it.
    So how could you?
    How could you understand
    what it’s like
    to both want to live
    and to die
    at the same time,
    in the same breath?

    But I won’t leave.
    I won’t shed this flesh.
    I’ve made promises.
    I promised…
    I’m not going anywhere.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • Somewhere In-Between: A Non-Binary Reflection on Identity, Isolation, and Defiance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a reflection on identity, expectation, and self-perception. It pokes fun at the rigid “alpha/beta” hierarchies humans obsess over, while also embracing the awkward, complicated truth of being a loner—or a “lone wolf with no wolfly features.” It’s a celebration of existing somewhere in-between: neither fitting the molds others prescribe, nor apologizing for being too observant, too complex, too queer, too alive in your own terms. Humor and honesty are both weapons here, used to dismantle clichés and to claim space for a self that refuses binaries.

    Non-binary fairy standing under an autumn tree, surrounded by falling leaves, half in shadow and half in soft pastel light, representing isolation and self-reflection.
    “Somewhere In-Between” — A reflection on identity, solitude, and the courage to exist unapologetically as oneself.

    Somewhere In-Between (Neither Alpha, Nor Beta)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sometimes it feels like
    nobody wants me around.
    That’s okay though—
    I don’t want me around either.

    I’m so off-putting—
    I’m not a people pleaser.
    A lone-wolf,
    with no wolfly features.

    I write too much.
    I don’t say enough.
    Too observant
    for my own good.

    Everybody wants an alpha male—
    Not some beta boy, beta fish,
    Watch him get pissed.
    Headbutting his own reflection.

    Me?
    I carry myself with class.
    Not an alpha, not a beta,
    Somewhere in-between.

    I wrote this—
    And I don’t know
    what it means.

    I write too much.
    I don’t say enough.
    Too observant
    for my own good.

    Like, everyone wants to lock-in.
    Stuck in the binary—
    But me? I’m a non-binary fairy,
    Queer as fuck, like the ones I don’t give.

    And it feels like
    nobody wants me around.
    That’s okay though—
    I understand.

    I’m too confusing.
    Too complex.
    I recognize a pattern,
    I know what comes next.

    Everybody leaves,
    like it’s autumn.
    Gaining distance
    from the trees.

    I write too much.
    I don’t say enough.
    Way too observant
    for my own good.

    If you have made it this far and would like to check out more of my work, you can find it [here] in The Library of Ashes.

  • Don’t Bother, I’m Not Worth the Effort | Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    A raw and confessional dive into the shadows of the self. I bare the weight of isolation, vulnerability, and creative exhaustion in this deeply personal poem.

    Dimly lit room with ink-stained journal and scattered papers, evoking solitude and poetic struggle.
    “Pouring out the heart and soul, line by line—a broken poet in their gray world.”

    Don’t Bother, I’m Not Worth the Effort
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Don’t bother, I’m not worth the effort.
    Just a shattered mirror, reflecting only discord,
    my heart’s a maze, winding and dark,
    A labyrinth of shadows, no end, no spark.

    I’m a poet with a broken pen,
    writing verses of a life that’s caged within,
    words drip from my soul, heavy and slow,
    but they’re tangled in thorns. No roses to show.

    My mind’s a storm, chaotic and wild,
    a tempest of doubts, like an unruly child—
    to open up is to let you drown,
    in an ocean of my thoughts, where I wear the crown.

    I’m nothing special, just a mess of ink,
    a faded page in a book you wouldn’t think
    to read twice or even linger on.
    A fleeting thought, then quickly gone.

    I can’t promise sunshine or clear skies,
    only cloudy days and heavy sighs.
    The walls around me are high and steep,
    guarding a heart that’s buried deep.

    Don’t waste your time on a ghost of a girl,
    who hides in the shadows, afraid of the world.
    I’m a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit,
    a story untold, not worth the wit.

    My smiles are paper-thin, my laughter hollow,
    a mask I wear, a tough act to follow.
    But beneath the surface, the cracks show through,
    a broken poet with nothing new.

    So don’t bother, I’m not worth the time,
    to try and understand my rhyme.
    Just a fleeting breeze, a passing thought,
    a tale half-told, best left forgot.

    For those who venture close, I can only say,
    the journey’s long, with little to repay.
    So turn back now, find another road,
    for this one’s fraught, with too much load.

    I’m just a whisper in the wind,
    a shadow you can’t quite pin… down,
    pouring the ink from my pen now,
    I scribble until the lines just bleed out.

    Don’t bother, it’s not worth the pain,
    to walk this path where there’s no gain.
    So leave me here, in my world of gray,
    where the colors fade and the lights don’t stay.

    I’m just a broken poet, lost in their art,
    not worth the effort to know or to chart.
    Just a broken poet, bleeding out their heart,
    not worth the effort to know….

  • Temporary Emotions: A Poem on Depression, Healing & Hope

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’m writing this for myself as much as for anyone else. Depression is a beast that convinces me not to exist, that twists my sadness into rage and makes even the smallest things unbearable. I need this reminder: these feelings are heavy, but they are not permanent.

    Right now, I’m in the thick of depression—the kind that makes everything feel heavier than it should, the kind that tells you nothing will ever change. It’s a hell of a beast, whispering permanence into what I know are only temporary storms.

    This poem is me fighting back against that lie. A reminder to myself that emotions are not stone; they are waves. They crash, they recede, they come again—but none of them last forever.

    If you’re reading this and carrying something heavy too, know that you’re not alone in it. These are temporary emotions. Even when it feels impossible to believe, the tide does turn.

    A surreal twilight garden with lanterns and dark roses, symbolizing depression and the fleeting nature of emotions.
    Even the heaviest emotions are temporary—like shadows, they fade with the dawn.

    Temporary Emotions
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In the garden of feelings, where shadows bend and sway,
    Petals of joy and sorrow bloom, then fall away.
    A riot of colors, fleeting, alive—
    Whispers of truth hum beneath the hive.

    Emotions are lanterns, trembling with light,
    Flickering through darkness, fragile as night.
    They waver, they vanish, dissolve in the air—
    Here for a heartbeat, then gone without care.

    Do not carve choices in unyielding stone
    When tides of the heart shift and pull you alone.
    Bend, stumble, sway, but do not yield—
    Even shadows retreat when dawn is revealed.

    Feelings crash like waves on jagged, dreaming shores;
    Grief gnaws the marrow, hope rises and soars.
    Night bows to dawn in its ghostly fire,
    Ash gives way to a tender desire.

    Though emotions may bind with chains cold and tight,
    Time’s patient fingers restore your sight.
    Let them flow like rivers in spring—
    Do not dam the heart; let truth take wing.

    Seek a friend, a page, a mirror to speak,
    Pour your pulse into ink, let your spirit leak.
    Feelings, like seasons, shimmer, then flee;
    The storm may roar, but it teaches to be.

    Step into the tide, feel its swell and its pull;
    The ebb is as sacred as the full.
    Remember, dear heart, this gentle decree:
    All that you feel will one day set you free.

    In this shifting garden, where shadows and sun entwine,
    Each fleeting heartbeat can burn, can shine.
    Ride the currents, let the day sway—
    Tomorrow blooms anew in its spectral ballet.

    Closing Note

    If you’re reading this and carrying the same weight, know this: we don’t have to conquer the beast today. We just have to outlast it. These storms will pass, and when they do, we’ll still be here—tired, maybe, but alive. And sometimes, that is enough.

  • The Hallow Sea – A Poem About Surviving Depression and Numbness

    Rowan Evans

    “The Hollow Sea” is a raw, haunting poem by Rowan Evans that explores the inner landscape of depression, emotional numbness, and suicidal ideation. Written in their signature style of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, this piece gives voice to the quiet desperation and fragile hope that exist in the same breath. Content warning is provided below. Please read with care—and remember, you are not alone.

    ⚠️ Content Warning:
    This poem explores themes of depression, suicidal ideation, and emotional numbness. Please read with care, and know you are not alone. If you’re struggling, there is help, and there is hope.

    “The Hollow Sea”
    (a poem about surviving when nothing makes sense)

    Here we go—

    I feel like I’m floating,
    Drifting in the hollow sea,
    Sunburnt bones in boiling brine,
    Salt-cracked lips that cease to plea.
    This life is not a gift—it gnaws.
    I’m blistered down to silent flaws.

    I feel like—

    Letting the razor kiss my skin,
    A silver tongue that aches to speak,
    To write in crimson cursive script
    The truths I’m far too shamed to shriek.
    I kiss the barrel—metal bride—
    Salt-streaked face I cannot hide.

    I’m too meek, too weak, too gone,
    A phantom cloaked in half-past dawn.
    I haven’t left my shadowed room—
    Two weeks entombed inside this gloom.

    ‘Cause I—

    Am drifting, lost in zero g’s,
    A marionette with severed strings.
    My feet forget the taste of earth,
    My heart forgets most everything.

    Noose-necked, swinging on a prayer,
    A bruised bouquet of breathless air.
    I’m hoping pain will be the end—
    The final hand, the final bend—
    Yet even as I beg release,
    My lungs betray me, gasping peace.

    My ribs are cathedrals filled with rot,
    My mind—a shrine that time forgot.
    Devotion stitched in broken glass,
    A requiem of what won’t pass.

    And yet—

    Though every star feels sharp and cruel,
    One blink of dawn might make me whole.

    💬 If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out:

    🇺🇸 United States

    988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988
    https://988lifeline.org
    Free, 24/7 support for emotional distress and mental health crises.

    Crisis Text Line – Text HOME to 741741
    https://www.crisistextline.org

    —

    🇬🇧 United Kingdom

    Samaritans – Call 116 123 (free, 24/7)
    https://www.samaritans.org

    —

    🇦🇺 Australia

    Lifeline Australia – Call 13 11 14
    https://www.lifeline.org.au

    Kids Helpline (ages 5–25) – Call 1800 55 1800
    https://www.kidshelpline.com.au

    —

    🇨🇦 Canada

    Talk Suicide Canada – Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645
    https://talksuicide.ca

    —

    🇵🇭 Philippines

    Hopeline Philippines
    Call: 0917 558 4673, (02) 8804 4673, or 2919 (toll-free for Globe & TM)
    https://www.hopelineph.com

    —

    🌍 Global

    Befrienders Worldwide – Emotional support in 30+ countries
    https://www.befrienders.org

    Suicide Prevention Wiki (International Hotline Directory)
    https://suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

    🖤 You Matter.

    Even when the world feels unbearably heavy — you are not alone.
    There is help. There is hope. Please stay.

    Still Here (A Poem About Suicidal Thoughts, Survival and Hope