Suicide Forest — You thought your pain was yours alone.

But it left a trail. It always does.

Suicide Forest hums like wind through hollowed bark. It’s not rage—it’s resignation. It’s the soft rustle of a life that wanted out. In Dante’s Inferno, those who die by their own hand are transformed into trees—rooted, speechless, yet alive. They bleed only when broken. Their pain, made permanent.

Dante does not walk past them.

He listens.

And they speak through their wounds.

You romanticized your suffering.

Wore it like silk, like armor, like incense.

But you never carried it alone.

You let it leak.

And the people who loved you learned to tiptoe around your edges, terrified of cracking the shell. You were always the tree, but we were the ones who bled when your branches broke.

Suicide Forest is a requiem.

For the versions of us that wilted trying to hold you up.

For the softness that turned to rot.

For the silence we mistook for peace.

This is the violence that leaves no bruises— but stains everything it touches.