People like me,
Who come from places like this,
On nights like this,
Don't feel loved
By anyone.
"WHY ARE THESE CLOTHES ON THE FUCKING FLOOR? HOW DO YOU THINK IT MAKES ME LOOK WHEN YOUR STINK ROTTEN CLOTHES ARE LYING ALL OVER THE FLOOR?"
We,
(And by "we", I mean "I")
Think about suicide.
I'm not going to dress it up in euphemisms.
We tell our counsellors this when we see them.
We say, "I've thought about suicide before."
"YOU THINK YOU'RE A KNOWITALL RIGHT?"
You talk about it to them.
You realize you're not actually going to kill yourself.
You know how to write essays, not kill people, let alone yourself.
Truly modern.
"WHAT DO YOU EVER DO TO HELP ME IN THIS HOUSE? I HAVE TO PAY PEOPLE TO COME AND HELP ME BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO DO ANYTHING."
But,
People like me,
Who come from places like this,
On nights like this,
Lie on our beds alone.
(We're always alone.)
"YOUR UNCLE JOHN IS DRIVING TWO HOURS AWAY SO HE HAS TO STEP OVER THE LAUNDRY TO GET TO HIS ROOM THAT I SPENT ALL DAY CLEANING UP?"
Despite all the devices created to keep in touch,
All the websites, and applications,
Nothing can connect you to someone who cares.
"NOTHING EVER GETS DONE IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE UNLESS I DO IT. NEXT TIME I SEE SOMETHING ON THE FLOOR I'M GOING TO THROW IT OUT. YOU NEED TO LEARN SOME REAL DISCIPLINE."
We think about little things.
Not grandiose plots involving wills, crying, aftermaths, letters to everyone you've ever cared about or know handwritten on yellow lined binder paper where the shortest of notes ends up taking you three hours and its almost twenty sides.
(This was that one time, not this time).
"GET TO BED THIS IS YOUR PROBLEM. YOU'RE ALWAYS STAYING UP AT NIGHT."
We think about little things,
Like what leaving,
What going feels like.
"BIG FUCKING JOKE, RIGHT? THAT I THOUGHT I COULD EXPECT MY KIDS TO HELP ME?"
That little sigh,
That little exhale,
When everything is over.
"FOR TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS I'VE BEEN DOING EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE, WELL NOT ANYMORE."
you are a beautiful writer, it will bring you happiness after all this. baby steps, incy growth, moving hearts with words, humming to the soul (even if the soul is fictional... which it is).
ReplyDeletelove trumps all.....
but love is slow to come and i know how you feel oh too often, about the suicide thing, and writing letters. i put everything off to stave my self-execution. it will take me forever and a day to write everything down, no time after that to die my dear.