At moments when I consider it
Standing on that edge

I hear that warm tune of your laughter
I feel myself smile

and step back

I wrote a poem,
Back when they diagnosed me.

About my fear of succumbing to my depression.
Begging it to let me go down swinging,
Terrified to eventually lapse into indifference.

I named it “Icarus”
And I take it back.

Burn my wings.
Send me hurtling down to Earth.
I’m tired of fighting.

My arms are broken from the fall,
And I can swim no more.

Burn my wings and end it.

I’m planning my suicide again.

First, I would leave her.
Second, I would leave here.

I would mask it as me needing to go somewhere else.
Somewhere new. Vibrant. Beautiful. Cold.

I would write a letter for everyone important to me.
About a dozen or so.
I’d give them to the brothers, and ask them to get them to their owners.

I don’t have everyone’s mailing address.

And I would leave. For somewhere vibrant and beautiful and cold.
I would bury myself there.

I’m planning my suicide again.
I don’t know if I’ll ever do it,
But it’s nice to have a back up.

It seems like no matter how hard I wash my hands,
They still smell like the hospital hand sanitizer.

Just a bit off.
Too sterile. Like a tile cleaning product. Unscented.

I tried handling garlic, even,
But the smell won't go away.

My days have become twisted.

I spend most moments stuck between a panic attack and a nervous breakdown
And I’m not sure how to leave that cycle.

On the best of days,
I lie down and try to distract my mind
From the cold, creeping, frantic terror
Welling in my stomach.

I’ve come to realize
That there’s no aspect of my life I like anymore.
I’m pushing away the people that I love again.
I’m using poetry as a coping mechanism again.
I’m using again.

I used to write with rhyme schemes
Pentameter
Rhythm and thought
Countless drafts
And keep them each close to my chest.

But now I scrawl frantically and afraid,
Genuinely, truly scared of it all,
Desperate to get something,
Anything,
Out into the world.

When we die
There is nothing

No silence nor darkness
No void nor emptiness

Simply nothing
And this is a mercy

I can't wait until I die.

I'm not eager for death.
I've confronted it recently and found myself scared shitless.

My cousin died.
May 15th, 2019.

My Uncle climbed through her car to find her phone.
He waded through puddles of her congealed blood.
She was his daughter.

I can't get the image out of my head recently.
My uncle, sitting in the cab of a destroyed truck,
Searching for an iPhone.