In the morning,
alone,
I plant a pill
on my tongue,
and it blooms
like a chemical kiss

In the afternoon,
I wash my face and
wounds with blood

At midnight,
the rain pours
on my pillow,
but I don’t weep

Every night,
I sleep in the burning house,
but cannot feel its warmth

I am repaying my
wounded soul a visit

A distant voice tells me
“I am no longer welcome here”

It is seven
in the morning,
where I wage a war
against myself

It ends only when
I take the pill

As a bullet
lodged in my mouth,
and I was the one
to pull the trigger

I am the architect of
my own destruction

I’ve survived
a dozen of wars,
and came back alive

Wounded
but alive

I cried into the darkness,
Tears dripping on notebook paper,
My reasoning scribbled between calculus,
Roommate snoozing as the clock blinked 1:00.
I pulled myself wearily into bed,
Empty Gatorade and pill bottles littered the floor.
I had not realized
Until after I swallowed
I didn't want to die
Anymore.

Death is not pretty.
Death is not brave,
Death is not freedom
Or grace
Or clarity
Or glorious.
Death is lonely,
Undignified,  
And vastly disappointing.
I do not recommend you try it.

The moment she says,
"Me too,"
The air evaporates from my chest.
My shoulders slump.
The weariness eases.
Sometimes connection
Is the best medicine.
I tell her she's found a friend in me.

And then the brain chemist spilled
An entire bottle of hypomania
Into the *** of depression.
Hell has many names.

I can touch my stability with the end of my pinky finger.
It dances on fishing string or careful drops in shallow water.
A deep breath in or a flick of my finger could upset the balance,
Sending me swinging again.

I am so tired
Of swinging from the vines
Of mismatched emotions
Until I,
Not unlike Tarzan,
Collide with the tree trunk
And remember why
I was not given wings in the first place.