every other line, underlined;
a life preserver sewn together with words,
ink circling my wrists like it could
anchor me here in existence, even if
it's nothing short of a distracting illusion.
in them, i saw my own struggle resurrect
itself, still a burden from my past
haunting me relentlessly since i was
thirteen.
isn't that a terrifying thing?
that kids of this generation
swallow pills like candy, cut wrists
like ribbons, drink liquor like
sweet-and-sour medicine? they give us
a bad reputation for hyperbole and
self-diagnosis, like the things we see
in ourselves are any less valid,
like the science and drugs they "cure" us
with have any meaning when our
mental mortality is broken and sick.
they say it's for attention, but
breaking news: it isn't.
why would you want to fake this
disease? it's a miserable, dead end cave
that collapses around you daily and suffocates,
squeezing until your insides are a barren wasteland, until
time ceases meaning anything and the clock ticks, ticks,
ticks, until we feel
the ticks of time teetering towering above
our heads, and we wait for the minute hand
to come slicing down like a
guillotine.
i remember that summer night vividly,
in muted colors and looming black screens
three a.m., weighed down by
self-loathing, wishing for an escape route.
they don't tell you about it; there's something
taboo about the slithering double s slipping
through your lips.
but every year, people succumb to this battle
they can't win, because they're so unaware,
frighteningly ill-prepared.
it's twisted how "i have a headache"
can be an acceptable reason to stop
trying for a day, but yet
"i can't get up today
i can't get up at all everything is
pointless and my body won't obey won't
perform basic survival functions and i
haven't eaten haven't slept right in days
i don't care why should i care
i don't care i don't care i don't
why do i keep going on like this like
a dead man walking like nothing
is wrong like this smile isn't badly mixed
plaster like it isn't chipping away
cracking breaking the ice around me
drowning me in the never ending black hole"
isn't quite good enough.
i never knew it affected anyone besides
adults. adults never realized
we kids could get totaled, too,
that we could be hopeless and
hollowed out, walking infinitely
in darkness and dissolving each
second. so yes,
when i found quentin, i wanted
to change his end. i wanted
to make things better, because i remember
finally finding a name for the churning beast
in me and crying with relief, no longer
alone or empty, even if the feeling was the fleeting
shooting star in a the vast dark cosmos.
i want to save him from the violent end
because i have to, because i owe
every kid like me an ear to listen, an
understanding smile, and some battle tips
from someone with invisible scars.
i'm healed, now, but quentin and so many
others have already lost, and
god forbid we lose another
to the parasite in our brains.
in his words, i hope someone
can find a steel lifeline,
and that they learn to let go
of tricky ticking time.
A personal poem inspired by Quentin Compson of "The Sound and The Fury" by William Faulkner.
