I lay a girl to rest in the flowers.
She sleeps softly in her meadow bed.
I stand by, Woman, strong.
I love her with all my heart
But I am glad I am not her.
Not anymore.
A snake slithers through the grass
His name is Death
And I am, at last, afraid of him.
When he strikes at my heel,
I crush his head.
All my force aided by
The blankets of comfort I wear around my shoulders-
Collected from my Dear Ones
And from the One above.

Suicidality fades,
Suplexed by love.
I loved myself with all the violence of a wrestler.
I threw my self-hatred on the ground;
Crushed the head of my snake.

Now-
Back straight
Head high
Hair curling around a sun bonnet
Skirt rippling out
Boots splashing in puddles
Music in ear and heart

I graduated at last
From barely surviving
To fully living.

You get used to
How are you?
and
Hope you are well!
and
overapologizing
and
I understand
and
long distance friends saying
I am here for you,
as if they could actually be physically there
as if they could give you what you needed
and as if
you could even articulate
what you really needed
and as if
they could read your mind
and somehow Know.
                [Nobody can ever Know,
                   Hell, you don’t even Know.]

You get used to
working up the nerve
to tell everyone
about what you can’t
handle
                     [It’s a laundry list]
and you get used to
your requests being
Ignored or Forgotten.
               [What can you say?
                Everyone forgets.
                And who are you to ask,
                everyone else handles these things,
                so can you.]

You get used to
Hopelessness
and
Guilt
and
Fear
and
Anxiety
and
Restlessness
a­nd
Boredom
and
instability
and
Suicidality
[but have you ever Attempted? the docs will ask
and you get used to know knowing whether to say
Yes or No. ****** if you say yes, ****** if you say no.]

You get used to
extreme idealism
followed by
extreme cynicism
and
helpless anger
and
illogical
and
hot and cold
and
all these endless cycles
and
saying goodbye
to concentration,
academia,
reading,
the things you once loved.

You get used to
the names
and
the insults
that are not
Abuse
because you are not from a “broken family”:
too sensitive
and
selfish
and
lazy
and
self absorbed
and
practically white
and
Not Indian at all
and
What would you do
if you didn’t have us
to go home to?

You get used to
the excuses
and the tears of your mother:
"Don’t be mad at me,"
and
"Think of how we feel."
and
"What would you do
if you were us?"
and
"You have to try to
Communicate."
    [You couldn’t possibly want this. You have to try.]

You get used to
Meds roulette
and
off and on therapy
and
explaining the whole sordid story

over

and

over

and

over

again,

your med details memorized
without you even trying,
and
nothing ever making it better
and
just feeling crazier at the end of the day
when the docs ignore you half of what you say
and the psych ward sends you home
with a bill and a piece of paper
that helpfully says,
“Depression with Suicidal ideation.”

You get used to
putting Dreams in the closet,
despite being told
that you’re allowed to dream,
and
huddling up
in your own closet
despite being told
that you can be Out and Proud
and
locking up all expectations
for Anyone or anything
or heaven forbid
the idea of
*** and/or Romantic Relationships,
                       [You are Asexual out of necessity now]
throwing away the key,
or at least,
burying it deep, deep, deep
where you can’t reach it easily
                   [You can’t afford those luxuries anymore]
You get used to
Lying
to anyone and everyone
whether it is necessary or not,
and
Not being Accountable,
despite telling people that you are
“trying the sobriety thing”:
          [oh my god, what a ******* joke]
sneaked wine
or spiked drinks
or whatever is cheap and available
every night when you are at home
chased with a klonopin or maybe two
[what’s the difference to you, they don’t even work]
because you are used to
no one noticing
[during the right hours]
and
you are also used to
Not Caring,
or
Tempting fate,
or
Playing the Game
with no rules
Call it what you will
[it’s all the same]
and
Not caring about
whether people stick around
or not.
[They never do, nothing can last,
it’s just a fact.]
You get used to
the “advice”:

Well if you just left the house and were social
and
Well if you just cleaned your room
and
Well if you just did things for other people
and
Well if you just stopped hanging out with sad people
and
Well if you just tried reading or watching Happy things
and
Well if you just stopped spending so much time texting
and
Well if you just got off the Internet
and
Well if you just Eat Right
and
Well if you try to Do Things
                                        [You must *always be doing things in this house.]
and
Well if you just got your license
and
Well have you tried Exercise?
and
Well have you tried Yoga?
and
Well if you just got a job again"
and
Well have you even bothered contacting these people who could help?

You get used to
just calm down
and
not knowing what to say
when you hear:
whywhywhywhywhy?
if you happen to breakdown
in front of your parents,
which happens more and more
now a days.
[How can you not know?]
You get used to
saying “fine”
no matter what –
the worse you feel
the more *fine you are
because you are used to
Never feeling better
no matter how much you
“talk about it.”
[Yes,
You are Fine,
because you should be,
you will be,
this is No Big Deal,
it could be worse
"you are not from a broken family."]

You get used to
holding back information
and
not reaching out
and
letting friendships wither
and
not trusting,
without knowing why
and
everything losing meaning
and
everything disintegrating
sooner or later.

What can you say?
Things change,
people leave,
people change,
feelings change,
you change.
What can you do?
If you’re a heartbreaker
then
you get used to that idea too.
[You secretly love the idea of
Hurting everyone else around you.
Maybe that makes you Abusive.]

You get used to
Every poem
ending up like this,
they’re all recycled words,
recycled themes,
recycled misery,
and, after all,
a dead white guy said
“there is nothing to writing
all you do is sit down
at a type writer
and bleed.”
[You get used to bleeding.]
-
But most of all,
you get used to
not being used to
Anything at all.

Dear Me,
You have always been enamored of language and vocabulary,
But your words are better suited for shaking the earth at a slam
Then writing your own obituary.
Is it not true that you have been unimpressed with every suicide note you’ve ever written?
What compels you to believe you’d do it better this time?
Dear Me,
We’ve courted suicidality like an ill-fitting suitor for enough years to recognize
The red flags by now.
Isn’t it time we stopped accepting pale apologies for the bruises it has left on our psyche?
“I am sorry” means little when it’s written in your own blood.
“It’ll never happen again” is a futile phrase when uttered more than once.
You used to believe that abuse was the price of being loved,
And should we not retire that sentiment?
Dear Me,
They told me to make peace with the fact that I may always want to die,
But you always wanted sugar as a child,
And what did that give you but a bellyache?
It’s not required to indulge your every whim.
Contrary to your own belief,
The thoughts will not **** you.
The last ten years of your life are proof that you can deny this demand.
Think of it like a work order,
A request that you repair yourself.
The goal is not that you never teeter on the edge.
It’s that you know in the end,
It isn’t a viable option.
Dear Me,
I used to think that “nice girls” never wanted to **** themselves,
But I’ve met a lot of “nice girls” who’ve sought a way out.
This desire is not a commentary on your value as a person.
You can be kind and broken and worthy at the same time.
Being happy is not a contingency of being whole.
Dear Me,
You’ve borrowed time the same way some borrow clothes,
Trying on different ages to see what fits,
Wondering what 60 is going to look like on you
When you haven’t grown into your 20s yet.
Your jeans from when you were 15 no longer hang in your closet,
And that proves you can take anything to the thrift shop when you outgrow it.
Dear Me,
I know you’re tired of these seemingly endless circles,
But you were told that mental illness is like a spiral staircase.
You still spin around even as you climb.
You are not the same person as the last time you wanted to die.
This moment is proof that you have changed despite feeling stuck in the same spot.
Dear Me,
It isn’t your job to befriend every lonely being in this world.
The Reaper will be fine if you tell him to make his own acquaintances.
You do not owe him your time and affection.
It isn’t your job to answer his calls.
Let it go to voicemail.
Dear Me,
I am not angry that we’re here again.
This is a love letter to the part of you that wants to die.
It is understandable to wish for an end to this pain.
You are still mine when you’re hurting.
I love you for all the times you’ve wanted to call it quits
And still showed up for practice the next day.
I pray that one day that kind of strength is unnecessary,
But never let it be said that you weren’t strong when it counted.
Dear Me,
We are in this together,
And I am never letting you go.

Yesterday
Yesterday I was suspended and now I don’t know my left from my right
My left is emotional
And my right is emotional
My left represents anger and resentment
My right represents suicidality and sadness
There is no middle.
There is no grey
There is no “This too shall pass”

I could be expelled for hitting a kid, due to the fact it’s my 3rd fight in a year and two months
I could be expelled because I am on contract.
I could be expelled due to the fact it’s a tiny school. Only 60 kids, and 35 on a regular basis.

My father cooked.
My father cooked like cavemen cooked, fire and stone,
Like men in the wild making cacciatore,
Soldiers in a trench chucking a can into the fire,
A party in winter furs eating kidneys raw,
Carved from the back of a beast.

He cooked like people dive into ill-fated romances,
No looks backward and all caution to the wind,
No time even to throw a pinch of salt over one's left shoulder.
Heart broken and fingers burned,
You would learn to love again,
And you would complete the recipe next time,
And it would someday be true love, amazing,
A bite that could sustain long after it was consumed.

My father taught me how to cook.
He taught me by taunting me when I picked too dull a knife,
Without ever showing me how to tell a sharp one.
By screaming at me in impatience when we were a second from crisis,
Without having the foresight to speak softly before danger was nigh.
He taught me the grandeur of making something delicious,
Without extolling the virtue of making it cleanly and safely.
He taught me recklessness,
To risk everything for just one iota of glory,
To act out of insecurity and even suicidality.

"My mother doesn't cook,"
I bragged as a girl.
"You will not find her barefoot and pregnant in a kitchen,
A dangerous place full of sharp knives and hot fires and screaming men;
My father protects her from all that."

But my mother does cook.
It is easy, and quiet,
And so it is difficult to notice,
But it happens.

She taught me to make spinach pies,
And when the frozen mixture itched my hands,
She took the filling from me and did it herself.

Meat, as wrested from nature by brave huntsmen,
Is tough and stringy and crusted with cartilage,
And when I clean it thoroughly,
I am doing as my mother taught me.

Decorated cakes are soft and fine and, yes, unnecessary!
But people eat with their eyes,
And balance the bitterness of life with all things sweet,
So I am doing as my mother taught me.

Setting a kitchen to rights may be as dreary
As removing the dead from the battlefield
After the spoils are won,
But both prevent rot and disease.
We do it for others as much as for ourselves.

That is what my mother taught me:
To act like someone else cares about me,
And to show I care in return.