I don’t want to stick around
To see how my life turns out
And I don’t know
What to do
With that realization

A suicidal mind
Can only see death
Can only feel pain
It’s blind to hope
Numb to happiness
Like the good has turned grey
And soon it’s lost in the dark

Pain can bring comfort
Distraction
Relief
So sometimes they bleed
Or otherwise destroy themselves

Health seems futile
Why would one want to prolong this?
Why would you want to stay longer?
Why eat? Why drink? Why bathe?
Breathing is annoying
Heartbeats are infuriating

I think... I think at some point
I had wanted a future
But now... now I just want out
I just have to get out

She dressed herself up
Did her hair
Perfected her makeup
Then she looked in the mirror
And smiled at her corpse

I want to cut
I want to cry
I want to break down
But it would seem
The alcohol would like instead
To lull me to sleep
And I want to let it
But I don’t want to sleep away this opportunity

Why does everything make me sad...
Good things make me sad...
Seeing people happy makes me ache
Everywhere I’m in pain
Because I really don’t feel okay
And I know people are figuring things out
They’re finding reasons to be alive
And every time I see them
Enjoying being alive
I am reminded
That I don't want to be

Our hands, like branches, reach toward the sun
Fingers stretched, curved and twisted to avoid shadow
And, like branches, our relentless journey to warmth
Makes us intricate and familiar

She died trying
In that old house
She died there

Where each footstep would creak
Like here aged bones
And bend like her back to time

Where each window was broken
Like her will
Knowing nothing

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.