i think a part of me will
always love being six years old—
love being tiny, unassuming, cold
in my reactions, bowled
over by my peers, told
to be bigger, brighter, better.

i am largely the same now—
but i am no longer six.

no one tells me to
become any bigger
or brighter or better,
being small means being
crushed, and if i am
overlooked, no one cares.

if i were six, this
would sadden me.
but i am no longer six,
i no longer care,
and i am alone in my
acquired apathy.

One afternoon he awoke
suddenly from a reverie,
and he sat up, hands
on his knees, cried a plea—
“Please, take me back
to a world without me.”

And me, I looked at him,
didn’t frown, didn't stutter,
held his face, met his eyes,
and replied with a shudder—
“Love, it’s me, it’s your mother."

I sat down with my friend one day,
curious, overcast, away—
and I asked him:
“Why do you not tell your children
before they fall to the ground astray?”

Here he turned to me, wise:
“If you were to have a demise,
would you rather know fear
or sail through the sky,
happy and then surprised?"

you ever get that feeling—
you know that feeling.
it’s that feeling you get
when you’re sitting in your room,
the lights are off
(or on, it doesn’t really matter)
and suddenly the world

stops

for a second.
your eyes refocus,
but everything’s blurry now,
you can’t breathe,
you’re swimming,
drowning,
flailing through smoke,
sludge—
the emotions
that swell up, in,
out of your chest
in the form of tears.

you know that feeling—
do you know that feeling?
it hurts, and it’s suffocating,
it tells you
“you can’t do it,
you’re a mess,
why are you here,
stop trying, stop
lying to yourself,
it won’t get any better,
you’re a waste of space,

just die.”

i know that feeling.
only it’s not a feeling.
sometimes it’s a state of mind,
a frame of perception,
a weeping shudder
where you want to cry
and you can choose to do so.
but you don’t.
it hurts, doesn’t it?
it tears through you,
doesn’t it?

i don’t know what you feel.

i know what i feel, but
i can’t name it.
there has to be a better word
than “depression,”
because depression
sounds like you’re stuck in a
deep rut with no way out,
and there has to be a way out.
other people have a way out.

and what does it mean to be
“suicidal” anyway?
to me, it’s a reminder—
i have a trigger in my hands,
and i can pull it any time—
but i don’t want to remind myself;
because for me, a reminder means
death,
and while i don’t care for death
i care for disappointment,
and—

i made a promise
and i curse it,
but it’s a promise,
so unless i want a
needle in the eye,
i’ll keep it.

so.

do you know this feeling?
i’d rather you didn’t.
i’d rather you move on with life
never having to know this feeling,
never having to struggle
to get out of bed,
having to suffocate
inside yourself,
having to hate what you are.
and if you do know this feeling,
i hope this is the last of it.
i really hope so.

in the mean time, however,
i’ll be here.
if you ever get that feeling,
again or otherwise,
i’ll be here,
drowning and suffocating,
sinking underwater.
but i’ll be alive.
no matter how much it hurts,
i’ll be alive.

and i’d like to be alive with you.

i take my first bite,
smile because
i am about to
mar something whole.
it sits against my tongue,
hard palate freezing,
ice cream melting,
strawberry crushed to pulp.
cream goes down my throat.

i take a second bite,
wait like the first time,
get impatient, chew—
seeds get stuck in my teeth.
a third bite, a fourth,
fifth, pause—
hover and hesitate.
the air is cold
against my lips.

i bite—strawberry,
cream, seeds, ice, oh—
i hit wood.