One of these days

I’m going to get tired of

trying to think of clever ways to say that

I want to **** myself

and just **** myself



I’m scared about telling my psychiatrist

that I want to up the dosage on my Prozac

because even though it’s true I don’t know

if I can be emotive enough to convince her

that it’s necessary, that I can feel in my chest

the urge to empty a pill bottle into my mouth

one at a time, and that I’m so sick of looking

at oncoming traffic so tenderly -

I have this horrible image of her letting me down easy,

telling me to get more sleep and work on my diet



But if that happens my ace in the hole is telling her

that now that I’m living by myself

I have a lot more freedom to act out

on my constant suicidal fantasies,

because there is no one for a hundred miles

whose potential sadness is enough to stop me

from seeing myself out



Telling her that the first time I got drunk

I finally realized that I have the opportunity

to externalize my wanton desire for self destruction,

and that I don’t have to try and hide my notebooks

full of sentences like

“Suicide is the most rational action available to us as human beings,”

and I can tell my friends that I want to **** myself

without having to whisper



I’m laughably resentful of the people I love

and more importantly the people that I think love me

because I feel like they’ve nailed my feet to the ground,

and I literally cannot even imagine my mother’s reaction

on hearing that I died on a hospital bed of an overdose

or that I jumped off the parking garage near my dorm

or that I blew my brains out and the lifeless mound of flesh

that was her son

didn’t even have the decency to tell her goodbye