Today, the pain is too much.
I get up anyway.
I get dressed.
I cry quietly so I don’t wake my roommate.
I fantasize about death,
about getting high,
about feeling good for a little while,
about feeling nothing.
I pause in the bathroom mirror,
staring at the shape of my hand closing it.
I breathe into the pain,
feeling everything.
I sob quietly.
I make myself face it,
the same way I make myself get up.
Keep going, keep going, keep going.
People will hate you if you k!ll yourself,
but those same people don’t answer your calls.
My pain is too much for me
and I know it’s every detail;
like a complicated tapestry.
I’ve traced every thread many times.
They don’t ask for my story.
They can’t hold any of it.
So why do I care that they don’t call?
I’m too much.