With the sky’s blood stiffening
& plugging the holes in its felt fabric
I admitted what I’d known for a bit too long.
It was 19:24 when I told my best friend
how I’d had an anxiety attack in Poetry 310,
how I’d pulled back from the terrible ricocheting
bullet whizzing into each synapse, an attempt
to distract my analytical thought patterns seizing up &
found my limbs convulsing without command,
my breaths zipping past my lips, 100mph in a 30mph zone.
My father had emotionally abused me & I found out
about 14:00, staring at a wealth of information,
how emotional abuse affects kids and I was gazing
into my own scars with chewed up cheeks.
Do you know instant inabilities, froth the mouth,
lashed to ceiling, concaved roundabouts? Belligerent
companions, I thought didn’t exist, not like this.
Not like how I’ve been told. Hadrian, short for Josh, short
for Navan’s boyfriend, at least in most stories.
It was almost 22:00 when she snapchatted me, eyes broken:
I want to commit suicide. It was 23:02 when the police called,
& 8:47 when she thanked me. The blood,
my blood, braced for impact, was this going to be my first time?
Do you remember your first friend’s suicide? I haven’t yet.
But waiting is nostalgic, counting taps of my foot.
Bleating for help, cry wolf, cry & die. Stonewall had enough
death seamlessly woven into history textbooks. Say,
maybe I ought to up & lie about tension riddled bodies when
my parents materialize. Afraid’s a word I studied
until it memorized contours of misshapen, looming, dried out
pride. Baked in the imprint of my fingertips, bruised, bashed,
cantered to lissome ledges overseeing basket-sized lakes.
Now it’s 14:58 & the lights won’t turn on & tunnels don’t mind
loamy silences with crippled arteries.
