I call my name, I plead
in quiet desperation, I try to stay afloat,
I let my mind strike an arrow in a danger zone of imagination:
the waves as cover to my fear,
and then I squeeze my pain like a nettle in my palm
and breathe for just a fleeting moment.

I see it clearly: my first ride without side wheels,
the spring has yet to settle its’ warmer palms into April’s edges.
My parents’ cheerful encouragement is bright, and my bruised knees don’t hurt as bleeding
is not the only pain I’ve learnt to feel by now.

I see my heart be gently broken and I break someone else’s heart —
I hate myself for that,
I hate myself,
I’m back,
I’m back to drowning.
The rapid flow of sorrow is fitting between my ribs like a habit I hoped I buried before.

I call my name again.
My entire body is shivering in a steamed bathroom, I hold onto the cold of sink
and I’m sinking again,
the ringing in my ears gets quieter —
I feel it.
Feel the tickling dark to move from the back of my head towards my temples,
it puts its palm on my weakest shoulder —
the one I keep for all my loved ones to lean on.

I never let myself to weep,
although my face is hot and wet from streams of anguish I cannot keep inside.

I picture my younger self in the greatest pain on a hallway floor while nurse
hesitates and joins in lulling —
she calls my name, she pleads.

I’m picturing myself with my head and bloodstream full of meds be let outside to only snap again
and act as my worst enemy once more:
my wrists and arms are witnesses to that.

My wild violence towards myself
is what will feed the fear and self-destructive thoughts I act upon.
I’m bored and that’s my sadness’ strongest drug.