I first tried to kill myself when I had just turned 19 years old,
to this day I remember the feeling of the pills going down my throat,
swallowing them so effortlessly
as though it were my destiny.
As though I was built with this capacity
to self destruct,
built with the capacity
to destroy this body that my mother pushed out into the world.
‘Ironic,’ I thought.
A month after my birthday, I try to take my life,
I end up in the psychiatric ward of the hospital I was born in.
I make a tally for every time I looked around the empty room
and wondered how I could make things final this time.
I make a tally for every time someone says I don’t look like
I’m supposed to be there.
I make a tally for every lie I’ve told:
Were you sexually abused? [x]
Did you have prior suicidal thoughts? [x]
Would you do it again? [x]
Do you use drugs or alcohol? [x]
I lie and deny it all, but how do you deny what’s in your blood?
I was built with an addictive personality,
my mother likes pretty little white lines and risky sex
and my father likes hard liquor and smoking cigarettes.
I was built with this capacity to deceive,
built with a baby face and angel wings,
but I sink my claws and watch myself bleed whenever I can’t feel a thing.
And I’m decomposing,
hiding empty bottles in my closet, in the hamper, and under my bed.
I can’t flourish with the thoughts screaming,
‘USE ME, USE ME. DON’T HANDLE WITH CARE.’
So don’t ask me why I hate the beach,
because I can’t control anything around me
other than my food intake.
And don’t ask me why I can’t wear shorts anymore
or why I wear long sleeves in 80 degree weather.
Don’t ask why I stay in places I shouldn’t
when I’ve already accepted my fate.
To live as fire, consume all that I can, before I quickly burn out.