breathing and accidentally something happens

I wrote a poem, I guess. I’ll share it today.

TW SUICIDE, DEATH, MEDS, SUFFOCATION, MEDICAL STUFF KINDA

when i take a breath in
specifically in, not out, because in is easier
physically that is
my ocd is like, oh, in addition to the gunk in everyone’s eyes
“did you know that there are particles in the air?
skin and bacteria float around everywhere”
i push the thought away reminding myself simply that
that not breathing hurts more.

and i would know how not breathing hurts
how a noose choking you feels until
the bar the rope is tied to snaps and you fall
how an oxygen tube down your throat
feels when you wake up and were unconscious when they put it in,
rendering you helpless as you were never taught
how properly to imbibe your oxygen
when you just woke from a state of unconscious

i have been there because of my brain
and mostly the 55+ 50mg amitriptyline pills
that did not succeed in killing me
i made sure to take more than nick drake,
with whom i shared an age in that he died at 26
and i was 26 when i, you know, did it
but i failed at the one thing i have so much practice in
everyone is uncomfortable when you bring up death

death and suicide, thanks ocd, nothing i’d love more
than to have thoughts on the hour like clockwork
that rise intrusively to the surface of my thoughts
as if it were a pool and they float, lighter than the water
less dense and heavy. they sit on top like a thin layer of oil
they do not mesh and they never will
with the rest of my thinking, at least in the sense that
they are not allowed near each other, they simply
coexist in my brain in different places

i lock the thoughts up in a room when this happens. scoop the oil.
i place the oil and a slight amount of what should not be there
but is because i am not perfect at removing oil on a surface
inside a container, and another, larger container, or several
contain the rest of my thoughts.
someone once told me not to look at the ground
i’m too pretty to have such low self esteem, she said
i smiled, not even a façade yet, you know, it was real
though temporary

so now i take my separated mental illnesses after leaving them
to sit around and fester but only because
i simply did not have the energy or ability to do anything else
and now they have not been checked on in weeks, months, years,
but when i feel an unfamiliar pain and check every corner
it is one of the last on my list but i look nonetheless
it was my doing. the mold spills out of the containers now
mold that once didn’t even exist

there is an unknown liquid on the bottom of the container
and where it was sitting, too, and, oh, no,
it drips on the floor so i quickly take it out to the trash.
milky moldy liquid is spilling everywhere and it disgusts me
i try, half-assed, to clean up my mess, which is actually the best i can do
so really i am doing my very best; but i digress
i try not to breathe in this time and hold my oxygen captive in my lungs
until carbon dioxide is all i can taste and i can bear it no longer,

inhale, inhale the fumes, the stench
of your own mistakes. i once made a good man hate me and for no good reason.
that is not my typical behavior but it is the bed i made for that situation
i breathe in, imagining a clear unpolluted breeze on my face
into my lungs, one by one, until both are full of- air— oxygen—- NO
the stench of the fumes is still there!
i breathed in as much as i could. might as well have lapped it up like a
little kitten drinking milk to grow stronger and because it tastes so unique
in a sweet way

but here we are, and i am unsatisfied at best. the good days are boring.
i have no complaints outside of myself that are not universal
but i mostly don’t have those boring days
mostly it’s just…pain…pain…pain. an overwhelming sense of suffering
the self-pity is almost as strong in me as it is in the girl my ex fucks now
the one who told me things nobody should say- is that
was that where the noxious fumes came from? spilling milky liquid?
was it you who stole my petals?
i was keeping them safe in a box but it is nowhere to be found.

and now as in my mind the thick white barium-drink-like substance
that fills my whole being turns a darker shade of bitter
i am puffy, full of fluids and infection
you are there, only a little bit away, passionately hating things that are, well,
technically my fault at one point but now i’m not to blame!
have you seen mad no take her shorter fingers and feel them try to act
as if there is love in the bones. there is… a devotion. an obsession.
much like mine, only more so & with more bile mixed in.
she doesn’t just smell like my sour milky bitterness
she has the smile of a creature who doesn’t know its blood is greenish white

bitter bitch (ocd i)

obsessions and/or compulsions and i’m suddenly more disordered
well, not officially, until i get the test at least
but i’m not sure why i think about suicide 3 times an hour without wanting to or
why damp food on hard ceramic plates under cold water feels like it burns or
why i can’t stop physically removing parts of myself in calculated ways

i got to know parts of my body that i never was supposed to,
searching to become clean
for a long time i obsessively thought about setting myself on fire
my username some places is still immolation
but i only wanted to burn the impure out, not die

and the compulsions to…i can’t tell you, because my brain just shut off
but as soon as i’ve restarted i’m forced to know again how
the door handle has to be turned right; to check that it was locked
i know i put the key in and turned it but i’d sooner die than leave without
turning that damned handle one more damned time and oh i don’t know letting my cats die

i obsess over suicide, i obsess over weight, i self-hate like i’m paid to do it
at a good rate, and i do the things, the things i don’t talk about much,
and i do them until it hurts and i’m sort of kind of almost clean
then i don’t talk about them of course because i feel guilty
i guess i can say i’m so fucking ocd now because i can’t stop obsessively thinking about having ocd

before you come for me with the pitchforks and fire, or the wrong size bandaids,
remember how i blinked at every pole we drove past and didn’t stop when we passed a fence and i
gave myself a headache blinking so fast so much (or whatever)
i intricately research suicide methods because i can’t imagine not knowing everything about it
i document moments because i can’t imagine living without memories, and ones were taken from me

so here i am, self-made victim and so “poor me”, except maybe i actually
was built wrong then abused and raped and bullied and made so broken, pushed down smaller
my arthritic joints were ground down and my muscles eaten away for sustenance
and here i am, creative and once-brilliant, even, but then again not really here any more
so i guess it’s both good and bad that i’m feeling incredibly bitter