According to some people,
there’s a solution to every problem.
Whenever I tried to fix myself,
my parents said I was doing fine,
but my therapist called my attempts
a delusion. I failed to see the difference.
Talking to myself, I say “But I didn’t choose you,”
and I say back “I love you, but I’m also sick”.
I have these voices in my brain.
I hate them, but I created them.
I ask them to stay because I have
this fixation on death, on change,
on the years I’ve grown out of pain.
I miss her oh so much.
We were sick together, both destroyed by the
ravages of depression, riding the waves of alcohol
abuse and antidepressants, and one day she got up
and screamed “Maybe our love is just laced with LSD,
‘cause darling, I’m high on life and you’re just high on me.”
The whispers in my head intensify to raspy screams,
asking for when my skull will explode so they can breathe.
She was my violent smile, my violent prayer,
my reason to keep moving forward.
We left her room just the way she left it,
we just scrubbed the blood out of the carpets,
we evacuated her room and hoped she would too,
but her spirit haunted it too long so we boarded it up
to erase the pain of her disembodied cries.
I miss him oh so much.
He and I were told that we were special
at a very young age, but maybe we weren’t.
We tried to get right with God so many times,
but after a while it just didn’t feel right.
He wanted the world to blind him with light
and rub the world’s salt into his wounds, he wanted
the world to make him see the pain of a systematic brain
so he could still have some fight in him.
I told him to sleep on his stomach so he wouldn’t choke
on his vomit, so he wouldn’t get it in his lungs, so we
could say we were in love.
We used his birthday money to try and get rid of his scars,
but he said he wanted to keep them, ‘cause he’s beautiful that
way, and if it was right with God, it was right with me.
The blood he left behind stained my clothes, the shit never leaving the fabric,
so I hid the clothes in boxes buried in a sea of totes and containers,
so I never had to see it again, but his blood still stains my hands.
I miss myself.
Everything in my head went quiet, all of the tics,
all of the constantly refreshing images just disappeared
when my old self died.
When you have OCD, you never really have any quiet moments.
When I was in bed I thought of everything I didn’t do.
When I walked home it took forever because there were so many cracks
in my sidewalk, and when that version of myself died,
everything that defined me went quiet.
I’ve heard that the world is ending, and my old self would’ve went out
and done shit anyways, but now I don’t want to leave my house ever again
because I don’t want to watch the world fall apart after I’ve already done so.
I’ve been thinking of driving nowhere, of becoming a box inside a dark room
inside the dark house at the end of my street.
I want to go away until I’m gone since it takes much less energy to not exist then
it does to exist and get burned, and I’ve been burned so many times the old me
is nothing but a pile of ash and the new me is nothing but a burned skeleton.
I want someone to drag me out of this bog of darkness and revive the old me
so I can just be happy again, so my head can have noise again, so I can live the
way I want to live again, because when the world ends, I want to feel it end,
and I want to be happy when it does, so my suffering can end and life can
begin anew with my burned flesh and bones, so the elements in my body
can be used in something cool like the birth of a new planet or the birth of
someone who is more deserving of life than I ever was.