My friend tells me that each morning
she awakens with suicide and coffee
on her mind, then she has a smoke.
I want to tell her how my mind
entirely bypasses the coffee -
how suicide is the first thought,
second thought, all day and night thought.
I want to tell her that if I must stay,
a simple razor blade will do...
criss-crossing over old scars, gashes
just deep enough to bleed out the pain,
or awaken the senses and escape numbness.
I want to see my blood trickling down, down, down
my thighs or arms like red rivers creating their own pathway
through my white valleys of flesh.
But instead, I sit silently, coffee in hand,
swallowing her pain as I stifle my own.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
My friend tells me that each morning
she awakens with suicide and coffee
on her mind, then she has a smoke.
I want to tell her how my mind
entirely bypasses the coffee -
how suicide is the first thought,
second thought, all day and night thought.
I want to tell her that if I must stay,
a simple razor blade will do...
criss-crossing over old scars, gashes
just deep enough to bleed out the pain,
or awaken the senses and escape numbness.
I want to see my blood trickling down, down, down
my thighs or arms like red rivers creating their own pathway
through my white valleys of flesh.
But instead, I sit silently, coffee in hand,
swallowing her pain as I stifle my own.
© 2010, Lori Carlson
All poetry under the names Lori Carlson or Iona Nerissa are the sole property of Lori Carlson.
Please seek permission before using any of my writings.
~Lori Carlson~
Request permission to use this poem