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
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
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