I barricaded the door,
Screaming, lurching,
Gripped by myself,
Fear searing through every fibre,
Desperation tearing apart my soul,
My eyes and heart on fire.

I screamed loud,
You heard me but couldn't reach me,
Because I didn't want to be reached.
Or did I?

I smashed the glass,
Drew the shards across my wrists,
Slipped under, as warm blood poured down my arms,
Searching for sweet release.

In the haze I heard you knocking,
Then banging, then screaming.
Sirens in the distance,
Then closer.

Noise; a saw maybe.
Loud bangs,
Bright lights.
Beeps.
Beep, beep, beep.

I saw myself on the table,
Surrounded by doctors,
My body a ****** mess,
The green line becoming weaker,
Then flat.

As a child they said that you go to hell,
If you *******, or hurt other people,
Or if you hurt yourself.

It's the only thing that kept me alive so long.

When I returned from the dead they told me to get help;
The church, doctors, charities,
Be mindful, watch the world,
Relax, meditate,
Get better.

But there's no getting away from yourself,
And when you're this broken you can never be fixed.
Not by anybody else, not by yourself;
Not even by those who love you.

And so I sit here, again.
The door locked, more secure this time.
The glass sits on the shelf next to me,
Ready to be broken.
I know to be silent, not to scream,
Not this time,
But to silently slip under without saying goodbye.

It's selfish, I know, to find peace for myself,
And to leave others screaming,
My friends, my family, my children,
But they don't know this pain,
Only I do,
And I know it has to end.
Maybe then, they can stop worrying,
Move on with their lives,
Forget about this 300lb weight they were carrying,
Which was causing them to sink,
A millstone, not a man.
A failure who was supposed to provide,
Make things better,
But who instead destroyed everything.

I feel calm, not terror;
My hand doesn't even shake as I write this note;
Yet I don't even know why I write.

A pause? Clarity?
A goodbye?
Perhaps all three, but defintely not a cry for help.
I've cried all my tears.
Unrepentent, yet sorry for everything,
This is, without question, the end.
Adiue.
Perhaps all three, but defintely not a cry for help.

according to you, love doesn’t like hot weather and
sweaty palms and cheap beer
it doesn’t hear any orchestras or go
to any movies and buy popcorn and soda
and defintely does not agree to
feed the birds at the park pieces of
a leftover subway sandwich

according to him, love does not fancy astrology or
icecream sandwiches and it never
gets it’s body wet ( let alone it’s hair)
in the swimming pool at a party
it was never invited to

according to the anonymous
love likes to sit
love likes to smoke
love likes to watch reruns of all
the television shows your mom had
a digusting addiction to


it loves boring routines;
the 9 to 5
and it doesn’t mind
being mentally drained
and unprepared for any
emotional stability

but according to me
love just likes to hide
in peoples clothes,
in lacy underwear and size 32 jeans

it likes pretending
it’s not there  and it enjoys
convincing you,
it is


not

but no matter what is said;
there is an undeniable
light in that room,
as he slides his body over
yours
weightlessly in
the dark and
it starts in your stomach—
escapes through your mouth
and it becomes the moon
above the both
of you

take my advice here—
always look for
it before
it notices you
doing so and
completely
disappears

because love isn’t
half as bad as
it’s been told to be

all you need to do
is learn to
cover your ears

Do other people ever look at me and see poetry?
Some bystander on a corner
young or old
loner or lord
and wonder about my comings and goings?  
Have they created scenarios for me in their heads?
Mazes that the fictional me must traverse
Have they speculated on my love life?
"Oh, that man has been hurt. you can see it in the way he walks."
Do they listen to my order at the coffee shop?
They must think I lack imagination.
Plain coffee, plain clothes.
I hardly make a peacock of myself
Do they envision my morning routine?
He psyches himself up in the mirror first.
Today he asks that girl out.
This is the day his nephew becomes a man
Would I take the young lad to a ******* or a church?
How can you even tell someone's character?
Are there people who dress and act so they can't be read?
Are there people with magic eyes that cut through my disguise?
Are there people who want to save me, or be saved by me?
That guy would make a good protagonist in my novel.
How many layers of reality have I unwittingly dived down just by being observed?
Do people think about things like this?
Doesn't it get in the way of their lives?
Because I sure don't.
And it defintely doesn't.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Never.
Notta once