i stay alive

i took two overdoses in 2016
combined there were over 300 pills in my body within those two months,
just the times i shouldn’t have had them in my body,
not counting the times i took medicines as prescribed

i don’t remember too well what happened
but i remember how i felt
lost, scared, panicking
unsure of any other options. nothing seems as solid as a suicide attempt sometimes

it’s hard to describe anything i go through sometimes
my brain becomes a mush-up
a mess of tangled neuroses (and other problems)
really i would like to feel happiness but the more realistic option is the absence of pain

my pain and suffering are not small things
they are big monsters that bite chunks of my flesh away and leave bone exposed
i am in bed for days crying over their existence
i am standing up and taking prescriptions and fighting too

the problem with suicide that never matters when your head
is full to the brim with pain
and won’t subside or ease at all
is the hurt you are too swollen with fresh tears to notice isn’t all your own

i cannot deny that multiple people tell me they love me
they care about me
sometimes it even feels real, if temporary
but i know when i push back my emotions and force logical thinking to overtake them:

this is a thing i can do
a thing that i have done
and it will solve almost every ache and problem i have
but comes back threefold for those who were brave enough to truly love me

i don’t want to do that to anyone
least of all the few who weren’t scared
when i broke open my ribs and skull and showed them what lies within
also, my cat, so for now:

i stay alive

never had stitches

i’ve never had stitches
never felt the curved needle poke through my flesh
when i fell backwards onto hard concrete
and my head split open
it was medical glue that they used to put me back together

i’ve never had stitches
never cut my skin so deep that the wound couldn’t heal itself
there was that one time i probably should have
but it healed and now
there is only a large scar on my left thigh where i could have had stitches

i’ve never had stitches
never been brave enough to climb a tree high enough
to fall far enough to break open flesh and bleed out until sewed up
i avoid these hazards daily
anxiety keeps me safe from all kinds of injury – but good things too

i’ve never had stitches
my viscera is inside me and i haven’t needed surgery on it yet
Endoscopy, Colonoscopy, MRI, X-Rays, CT scan, Blood Tests
and of course also Etc, miscellaneous tests
no diagnosis came from them but also no need to be sewed up afterwards

i’ve never had stitches
mental illness is a wound that won’t heal on its own
it has been haunting me in multiple forms for years
but stitches are a disproven treatment method
for my cocktail of severe diagnoses that hurt invisibly without fail

i’ve never had stitches
i’ve had more than 200mg of klonopin in my body as an attempt to end my days
i was in the ICU in a coma for some time
then the psych ward
but suicidality is another wound of mine they can’t seem to stop from hemorrhaging

i’ve never had stitches
i am thankful to have never medically needed them enough
at least enough that i would have died without
or become infected
but believe me when i say, you don’t need to have had stitches to have felt pain

sludge monsters

sludge trickles down, obscuring my view
i listen and am not found
i speak but am not heard
it drips further, suffocating, slipping between parted lips
filling the narrow spaces between my teeth
i write a poem to be read by few
i put words on paper and expect nothing at all

for nothing good ever came from the lessons
i must be so strong, to have survived so many
yet i feel so weak, for that is my curse
standing straight, i show with my posture
“i am ready. come at me!”
when does it not? i merely aim to scare.
i fight daily and gain little

chaotic, impulsive, a mess

the thing about my cosmic ability to destroy
is that when i leave, something beautiful happens
(from ash sprouts life)
and again, within a short time, they are blossoming
just not ever while i am there.

when i take with my hands and allow
what is worn to crumble away
(suddenly the edges feel new)
i am too much and i burn too much, but i burn off decay
it is only after my hurt that some things can ripen.

i am so very lonely, even as i leave beauty behind me
change is unpleasant and nobody likes my habits
(i learned this at a young age)
so i try to destroy something i was never supposed to
i singe my own self – starting at the corners and joints.

too much

she tells me i cannot call her except for in a small window of time during the evening
because i am “too much”
because i am “exhausting”, and “draining”, and other things i loathe myself for being

he tells me i cannot text him more like i had anxiously requested
because i am “too much”
he tells me he wants to text even less than before, but when i cry he does not leave

i sit with a self harm kit full of razorblades pried from shaving razors that i think i deserve to feel
because i am “too much”
because the shit in my head will not stop or quieten and my heart aches every second of the day

the truth is, i know i am “too much” (i am too much for myself most days)
i sometimes wish to be less, but mostly i wish for someone to come along
to tell me honestly that my intense self, overflowing with emotion, is just the right amount