not extinct

i’m here. not extinct. for now.
it was a meme, a cute tidbit from the net
now it lives inside my head forever too
i’m not extinct. see, i like that
to put it obviously: it implies i am endangered
but still alive!

what a joy. what a thing.
something, at least, to be alive still
i can’t talk about how badly i’m doing
without instinctively smiling because
i’m scared someone will put me back.
inside the hospital.

it’s not so much, so little, so anything
that these monsters need to be extinct
extinct unlike me. for now at least.
maybe my rapist needs to be fired from the local psych ward
but i already reported him twice
i remain alive.

i fought on out of spite. i did it.
for six months i swear i didn’t even want to die.
after the second time that i have in my memory
i guess it lasted too long, or i had too many injuries after
or maybe the second rape is just worse, but i didn’t want to die
prove he couldn’t do that to me

nobody can do that to me
i could go through worse. i almost always can.
the only person allowed to hurt me is myself
the only person i let touch my soft core
is the little demon that lives inside me
fills me with self hatred.

cuts me up. inside. where it hurts.
it doesn’t hurt outside like the knives in my stomach do
and brain and heart and being always ache
when i have taken razors or scissors or nail files or needles to my skin
it hasn’t hurt so much as bled. i sit here crying and writing
this is an alternative to the tiny weapons

it’s not uncommon to keep a kit
a little box full of self-harm tools
it’s been written about in comics and essays before
it’s been evident from the tiny metal boxes i hide in my room
i invite too many friends over for my loneliness to choke on
to be visibly this sick.

i haven’t even used the kit in months.
i thought my friend was dead, again, but this time more so
i considered it but honestly
what is the point of a wound when a death will do the job better
and though i stopped caring about living for revenge after some time passed
i still stay alive for my cat and

i guess, i suppose, my new antidepressant is working.
it’s hard to admit when you are attached to your sick girl identity,
but then when i think about attempting with these deadlier pills–
i think about how i’d feel if i survived and they were taken from me
it’d only be my own damn fault. not extinct.
if i died, would that be better?

the slow ache of the invisible prongs
of these ugly murky invisible starfish attaching themselves to my soft skin,
tugging at the edges and eating me from their middle
tearing away at my skin and my muscles
i cannot go there again. i would not, even for death
but death would be so sweet without the means to overdose

is the grass always greener, or whatever
in the sense that if i start to get better it will feel too uncomfortable
and if i start to breathe properly people will expect me to function
so i let myself starve instead. i let myself drown so, so slowly.
a drop of water in my mouth every week
eventually i will choke and drown

that’s the plan, right? that’s the method.
that’s how sometimes eating disorders are actually suicide.
how you can hurt your family less by giving them a disease to blame
rather than themselves
if it was accidental and just got too severe, it won’t hurt them much, right?
neither my mother or i want to outlive each other.

but i am moving tomorrow. today. it’s 2:46am as i write this.
i am not packed and i am running out of hours to keep surviving in a way
that keeps others happy…of course i can’t keep myself happy while not extinct.
but there’s only one me and if i died, i would be. extinct.
no more pink haired sick girl to listen to her friends and cuddle xena
and no chance at some kind of future like i want to want

the message is always positive at the last minute, the paragraph i write before i publish.
so that nobody reads this, calls the authorities on me & causes a panic attack or worse.
and also so that i learn to one day believe my own words. live on and write more of them.
each paragraph here is getting longer, maybe my life will be similar, maybe i’m not so bad
not so doomed, not so destructive. maybe i can get better.
i have to remind myself, but it’s not just words, it’s the truth.

a chance may not be much.
but i am still lucky to have that.
i am still thankful to have that. i think.
i will still keep fighting because truly what else is there to do
besides the obvious. isn’t it too obvious?
wouldn’t it be amazing if i died of old age rather than suicide?

maybe i can

a first step

the girl on youtube tells me, and many other viewers, don’t kill yourself, because her sister did, and she suffers for her sister’s actions years later
she talks of the stinging and hurt after
the questions and anger
she means it
i listen and for a few hours i am quietened

my best friend on imessage tells me, and spends half an hour explaining why in great detail,
i should not kill myself
they mean it
they love me and they would be so angry at me if i tried and failed
they would be so angry at me if i tried

my boyfriend on skype sits there with his head resting on his hand, he too told me not to kill myself, and now he is at a loss for words
he was tired before we started talking
i cannot help but wonder if his life would be easier
without me in it
he tells me otherwise when i voice this thought to him. he means it.

my mom left my apartment earlier after watching the aforementioned youtube video with me, because she has cats and a home to attend to
when i ask if i should kill myself, she always says no, no matter how tired of talking to me she is
i wonder what kind of monster would ask their mother that
and justify the act of killing myself within my imagination
by my own selfish actions. but no matter how tired her voice is when she tells me she does not want me to die, she means it

my throat hurts from crying and i am too scared to say it to myself
why is it so easy to vocalize self-hatred and deprecation
to wish the worst upon myself
to mean it
and so hard to even speak that i do not want to die, i do not want to lie, but i want maybe one day to be happy

i aim for hope and fall short every time, kissing the ground with my cheekbones, grazed
freshly bleeding and in need of sanitization
everyone tells me that i will one day not regret staying alive
i write this poem in a vague attempt to do something more productive than hurting myself
i wish i could want the things others want for me for myself. i say that aloud. it is a first step

wishlist

buy me a pink low pile rug and pink furniture paint with primer mixed in and
a new tall cat tower for my babygirl xena
and some 35mm film for my camera

pay off all of my debt and
help my mom repair her house and cover medical appointment copays
and ensure that my checking can always pay the vet bills

give me a place to live where i feel safe and free and
i want to walk outside again and feel fresh air
and i wish the most for a life with good mental/physical health for myself, for those i love

roses

i’m not one for burning images
tearing up photographs and
tossing them in the garbage

i like to preserve and document
i live to scan every photo, write every word
document every single damn moment

maybe it’s because my sun is in cancer
maybe it’s because i’m a millenial
or perhaps i am just a nostalgic girl

we aren’t friends any more
you and i stopped sharing laughs and snacks
a while ago we halted but i’m here

i don’t want you back in my life, no
but if you think for a second that the video
of dinosaur chicken nuggets being arranged by you

would get deleted? no
i still have the printed photos from my 25th birthday
when you bought me chinese food and smiled

i have happy memories too
of things that are still untainted by the mess
of ending a friendship and criticism never heard

the time we went to a diner,
there were so many times he and i walked into diners
i always order more food than i can eat.

i’m still here to get better
i still fight to preserve everything but myself
i still care about you though i do not want to see you

unsure how to be

i’m sorry that all i know how to say sometimes
is “i don’t know” or that
everything i touch walks away a little more hurt

i wish i was something healthy and complete
by myself a perfect being
never in need of aid; never feeling unjustly betrayed

i don’t know how to communicate effectively any more
i am unsure how to be
i am compressed into a high pressure container and i will implode

i flaunt my flaws these days, allow them to run wild
immolate; immolation
not just a username but a thought about nail polish remover and feeling better

my therapist asked me about my mother today and i grew quiet
withdrew into myself
so as not to anger and to be the best myself i can be, still flawed

i consume foods that i know will make me sick
i’ve done much worse
does that change the path of self destruction? no