I wonder how many times you have climbed into a tub and thought, "Wow maybe I could drown in hopes of escaping my life." I dont know how many of you have thought that but let's just say a few. One: I step into the tub with my left foot and the water is immensely warm. Downing pills couldn't be that bad right now. Maybe I could grab the bottle without anybody noticing. I wonder if I could make my own concoction of medicine would suffice. Concoction is a funny word. Two: I step in with my right foot and everything is tingling from the heat. If I charge my phone from the plug over there by the sink, Could I electrocute myself? I wonder how bad electrocution hurts. Deep fried food would be nice right now. Three: I sink into the tub and pull my knees to my chest. if I lay back now and fight myself from breathing, Could I do it? I wonder how long it takes somebody to drown themselves in a tub while fighting their instinct to survive. I could adapt and grow gills. Four: I lay back into my tub and watch the water rise. The water is warm and my body is heavy. I can't **** myself because my headstone will be something sad, My funeral will play music I'll hate listening to as a ghost, People I don't even know will show up. What if my ex shows up? Five: I sink lower into the water until I can no longer hear clearly and it tickles the side of my eyes. What's the point in breathing. Breathing is so weird. Why do I have to maintain a body that's going to die anyways? I wonder what dying feels like. Six: I've been in here for an hour. Maybe I should get out. This water has turned mildly lukewarm. I'd like to stay but I'm getting kinda cold and I like the warmth. Could I just empty half and add more hot water? I am sitting in a pool of my own dirt. Great. Seven: I'm climbing out while simultaneously pulling the stopper. Theres so many different ways to say that you or somebody is dying; Kick the bucket. Pull the plug. One foot in the grave. Bite the dust. Croak. Some of them are kinda funny. Eight: Realizing that I love baths but hate the thoughts that come with the quiet bathroom. I'm exhausted. The mental kind of exhausted. Can I stop now? Can I just lay down and close my eyes? My anxiety is overworking me. Nine: I open my door with a stiff towel and a cold room. I love the quiet but the quiet kills. I love my mind yet the way it works is poisonous to me. Ten: Nothing. Sitting. Alone. In my empty bedroom.
Yeah, that's a long title. No, it's not exactly a poem.