I wanted to believe in something
bigger than us all.
Maybe it’s because,
I want to mean something.
And then I realized,
that would take the power
out of us.
the power lies within us,
and that meant something all along.
All I know is uncertainty, in all of its intolerableness.
I told my parents that I wanted a gun for Christmas and they reminded me I was mentally ill. I remember when I used to tell them that and they would never believe me, blind to my suffering as much as I was. My mom once told me to kill myself, to see if I would actually do it. Every time they talk to me, the inside of me swells up. I feel like I’m gonna die without even doing it myself. But they care though, I guess they just don’t know how to do that very well. Well my therapist assures me they care and I guess I have to trust her. I can never think of something to talk about with my therapist, but we always end up talking abut something. That’s always a big insecurity is not being able to talk. And whoever my therapist is at any point in my life is one of few people or the only person I can rely on, and I’m not even making that up from my insecurities, it’s usually just true for people. I always prided myself because my therapists always either really liked me or thought I was their most interesting patient or etc. It’s been one of few validating experiences for me on this earth. That’s why I get nervous that I might start to bore them. My life is really boring right now and I don’t have any friends. Even when I think nothing’s happening, though, I guess it’s not true, because I always want to die, if only they knew. I bet I’d be good at dying. My suicide note would be a beautiful gratitude list mixed poetry and emo sayings. I’d definitely wanna go out with a bang. If I can’t love my life I’m sure as hell gonna love my death. I remember taking this african dance class when I was still in college and the teacher would always play this song that would just repeat the phrase “I love my life”. I always thought she was crazy but I’m starting to think now that there’s no such thing as craziness, just different experiences. That woman was crazy to me because loving life wasn’t normal to me, only hating it was. I never thought I was crazy but everyone else did. I never know how things originate. Like did people thinking I was crazy make me suicidal and not feeling like I belonged in the world. Or did my suicidality make people think I was crazy. And if the ladder is true than maybe all the reasons I feel like I don’t belong aren’t real. But I never felt like I belonged and people always thought I was crazy.
I can’t tell if I’m a lion awaiting sedation
or prey awaiting being eaten.
You told me it didn’t matter
as long as I sucked your dick.
So I did,
as to avoid dehydration.
I thought you blinded me,
but then I realized I just couldn’t open my eyes.
You told me to open them
not so I could see,
but so you could see my eyes.
I tried to speak,
but there was something in my throat.
I look up at you,
but you’re someone different now.
I just want to find out who I am,
never meant a thing to any man, I want a friend.
But if you ask them I’m sure they’ll lie,
don’t wanna be the reason I don’t survive.
I wanna be a part of people’s lives, but
I do better by myself, but I’m not so sure what better is,
Or what happiness can be. I’m not good at things I want,
better at what I’ve got, or better at nothing,
since that’s what I’ve got. Maybe it’s a lie
or maybe it’s true, all the same though when you’re not sure about life.
Is there beauty in that though? I mean there’s beauty everywhere.
I’m unhappy here but there’s still happiness here. I want
my own special life, but no insult to the simplistic, so I
hide my tears behind the glitter on my eyes, so you
couldn’t tell that this isn’t what I’d choose.
Then it’s easier to take, ’cause if I don’t choose it,
it’s embarrassing that this is all I could make.
But I still hear them tell me
to think about the times I would’ve died,
try to think of reasons God wants me to survive,
but if they took so many great ones,
should I even want to live?
Only alive to insult all the greatness they did.
And does it even matter what we do when we’re here?
I guess no is easier anyway, but then
there’s no point at all, I should just end it today.
And then that’s the biggest point of all,
no matter what color it is, I’ll always be blind, and so
I’ll never be happy, even on the other side. There’s no
cure they say, but maybe it could. We should all be done.
Don’t wanna promote death but is there any life left?
Even if I’m dead it’s all the same, I’m insane,
and at least when I’m dead I’m no longer to blame.
You always said I had something to say, but we don’t speak anymore. My mind talks to yours though, I think. Can you hear me? I always thought I had a guard up, but that was just you. You guarded me from the world, and I think maybe I liked the safety. I thanked you for your protection but I should’ve seen you for the brick wall you hid me behind. You made it look nice though, like an art project for your drawing class. You used to draw pictures of me, but I never would’ve thought that I was the project, perfectly primped to your liking, like you were gonna eat me for dinner. Every time you fixed my makeup I thanked you for your help. And every picture you took from a carefully selected angle as if to not show my uglier side, I thanked you for those too. But they were never for me though, were they? It always took weeks for you to send me the pictures you took after I asked and asked. “It’s my photography project,” you would say, and you were right. I felt at home with you, because I felt safe inside myself, because you never let the world see my imperfections and never let me see them either. Every ugly drunken night was an erased memory for me anyway. And you were always there to clean the vomit until I got used to using it for a pillow. Gross could just be another cute dimension to my charming personality that you dutifully constructed. You hid my ugliness in the dark shadows of our dorm room until I forgot they were there. And then months later, the smell of its rottenness overtook our febreeze, and you were so shocked that I was truly imperfect the whole time, that you locked me out to find some more vomit to sleep in, because you forgot I wasn’t your daughter or something, when I would jokingly call you “mama.”