it was thirteen,

when you first held a knife to your throat

and tried to figure out which ceiling fixture could hold your hanging weight,

the year that she called you a chink

and the same where he named you ‘Ugly’

the engravings on your wrist were temporary,

blunt trauma scratches on thickest skin,

because you couldn’t even bleed

to heal the hurt in your heart.

you begged your hands

to open wounds on your legs

(you wanted to stuff them with pills

and pretend your neurons worked)

but it was too much.

you were thirteen, after all,

and you were afraid –

of people, of age, of fucking up.

but you never understood people, never knew how to accept the passing of time, never stopped ruining everything you touched.

it was fifteen,

when you begged the counsellor to safekeep your black, decaying words

and she smiled, shuffled her papers,

told your parents.

the year you cried in the parking lot,

and the same where you dropped out of Math,

and no one fucking listened,

no matter how deeply engrained the exhaustion became on your face, no matter how little you ate, no matter if your world was burning or not.

you’d trail behind lines of people

too preoccupied to see you gulp down the loneliness.

you swallowed a handful of pills in the following evening heat,

and cried when it only brought you pain.

your body ebbed and flowed,

ice against your pallid husk,

fire amongst your belly,

and you wanted to scream so badly but you couldn’t stop shaking long enough to make a sound.

your mother asked you the next morning if you’d like syrup with your waffles, and yes please, and here you go, and please clean up your dishes.

it was twenty-one, almost twenty-two,

when your head is so full of noise that everything turns black.

the year you put a bag over your head, the year you stopped taking your pills and started pooling them, the year you longed to pull the wheel into headlights, the year you almost purchased a tank of helium, the year you pulled up a webpage to get your gun license,

and the same that you found cold lucidity.

it was May fourth at two in the morning,

and you laid alone in a bed

that is not yours,

never will be,

in a body that is not yours,

never will be.

with hands that shake,

a broken spirit,

and not a soul to share it with.

I hope you never wake up.


2 thoughts on “‘Headspace’

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