i think this is a poem

TW: suicidal ideation; mind your heart

I was already in bed when I decided I wanted to walk into the sea.

(There is no shoreline. There is nowhere to go.)

So, instead I pulled a bathrobe on and grabbed a wine glass (you know which one) and I watched the gas station Cabernet slosh like blood.

(because maybe i am bleeding, maybe this is dying; i just know that it hurts)

I am tired of my own voice, but I don’t know where else to go. (There is nowhere to go.) I just know that I am here again, half naked in my own bed and glassy eyed and my heart is pounding and, fuck me, it isn’t even 9:30.

Sip the wine, play the sad songs, keep writing, keep going, make sense of it, make something beautiful.

Is that what’s beautiful about me? My foolish willingness (fuck, is it eagerness) to rip out my own innards and put them on display?

HELLO.

I AM TIRED AND SAD AND I THINK I MIGHT BE DYING AM I BEAUTIFUL YET.

(don’t type the thing you want to type, don’t be an asshole on top of everything else)

Nothing fits anymore. My clothes, the words in my mouth, the ache in my heart. I am spilling and bursting and overflowing and I don’t know where to contain myself so I just lie here and (not so) quietly ooze.

(This is all fucking bullshit. I know that.)

My fingers shake on the wine glass (you know the one) and oh, I really hoped I was done shaking.

I don’t want to sleep, not really, but I also don’t want to stay up and feel wretched tomorrow. I just want to talk. I just want to sit here in my soft bathrobe and participate. That’s what this is, I think, always:

I’m lonely.

Sip the wine, play the sad songs, re-read the story you should stop reading, keep writing, keep going, make sense of it, make something beautiful.

I feel crazy, is the thing. (I suppose I am crazy. I didn’t set out to be, despite all evidence to the contrary.)

This thing hurts, is the other thing. This Thing coils around my chest and squeezes and presses and I feel like I can’t breathe and if I’m going to drown, I might as well get to see a fucking turtle, right?

I was already in bed when I decided I wanted to walk into the sea.

But today was a good day.

Maybe I’d just like to see the turtle.

(I don’t want to stop, please don’t ask me… I can’t go back to bed, can’t close my eyes and pretend, can’t ignore the sting of tears, the thrum of my heart i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry)

There’s more DBT on Sunday, therapy on Tuesday, a support group on Thursday… there are anchors. I can make it, I think. But my stomach feels like it’s swallowing itself now, so I came here and I hope you will forgive me.

In DBT, I work on replacing the Cruel Voice in my head with Spider-Man’s voice.

“Would Spider-Man think you were beyond saving?”

(Oof. An efficient means of destruction.)

“No.”

So, I suppose I am not.

But I’m sorry. And I want to scream and wail and beg about it and I feel like I have been shoving myself into a shoe box beneath the bed for a year and I feel like I am panicking probably because I am panicking.

Tomorrow I’ll try to work, try to pretend there isn’t this screaming in my brain, because that’s what we do, right? (I don’t want it to be like this.)

(i wanted to write something beautiful)

There are no secrets of mine. There is nothing I wouldn’t sell on the off chance that you’ll smile at me. There is no story more precious than your acceptance. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

I am in bed and there is no sea. There is nowhere to go.

Sip the wine. Feel your pulse. Trust you are real, trust there doesn’t need to be a reason.

Always: breathe, heart. Breathe. Remember the Bard:

Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them.

But not for love.

Published by Dani

I like breakfast, marine mammals, Star Wars, comedy, the song "Dead Man's Party," and Halloween musical revues at theme parks. Let's be friends!

One thought on “i think this is a poem

  1. Sad sips make sense flowing like wine from sad songs already written by the Muse that Spider man consults when his powers seem to have no purpose and he wants to read something beautiful so that his ugliness can be part of a grand dialectic not too hectic.

    Like

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