Open up the dirty window...

TW: suicidal idealizations, broken glass, cutting references, overdose

author's note: I use writing as a coping method sometimes. I came very close to a self-inflicted death back in 2015. I won't go into detail, but sometimes those thoughts still rattle around in my head. Writing helps, as it always has. This poem is not a cry for help, but a cathartic release of emotions that no longer suit me. Thank you 

~~~

I couldn't clean the inside panel

so I smashed the glass to my satisfaction, 

and through the goop and blood

I sprayed my Windex

in agony. 

It's not always the right thing

to let a deep cut heal

sometimes it heals all wrong and funky

with the gray and mottled skin; 

and sometimes infection sets in

and seeping and ugly, your healed wound 

is fatal. 

I couldn't get to where the infection was. 

I couldn't continue what I was trying to say. 

I couldn't find the aspirin, 

and in frustration

I took an entire bottle of cough syrup

and downed my gummy vitamins to add some substance to my meal...

Lying in the hot sun

is a cure to everything except cancer

and lying to yourself

will help you with everything else. 

You don't have to move all the time. 

My sadness isn't something separate

it's growing from my back

in my hands, the skin splits open, 

and thorns emerge from my palms

Serrated tears fall when I cry

 

Everything is sharp and dim

and in a shoebox by my bed, 

I've already said goodbye

Bloodletting has a purpose, 

purifies the body

so I treat myself to toxens

and pass out, incoherent,

murmuring some name I already should have forgotten

and sealing my injuries with a kiss

and my letters with pain, and pride

waiting for an end

that will take it all away, 

I await my suicide.