Cataclysmic ringing & ringing & whispering & words
can’t cover the brutal Beethoven crashing through
my eras. Trumpets blast in my head, this drama
exploding & announcing the Four Horsemen. What
is quiet? Solace? Peace? I do not know if any
of those comforts are real. There are some days
when I can separate these sounds that meld into each
other and hear voices sing out discordantly—they
challenge the horns & cannon fire of Tchaikovsky,
echoing & reverberating within the confines of my skull.
In a dictionary that defines words through sensation,
this is cacophony.
Sleep does not equal relief. It is not escape.
It is immersion into the maelstrom that
only consciousness can repress. Freud would be
so delighted, high off of cocaine yet able to
use my mind as proof & further study of
psychoanalysis, (most definitely meaning repression,)
no matter how outdated. Everything passes, consumed with the
end. And the entropy creates the template for
beginning. Ouroboros circles above, mocking me
for trying to cast off these scales on my eyes
to watch time spiral on & on. I sometimes wonder
why they teach history, because no matter
how much we learn, humans are blind. We
are victims of repetition.
Sleep brings regret. It carries my burdens, fluttering
closer and closer as somnolence bears them, heralds
them not unlike the way the winter creeps and
exhales sleep & death. Soft & weak, yet they are
cannons buried in flowers. Does Gilgamesh still turn,
restless in his watery grave in the riverbed? Does he
still damn himself, staunch in his misery, in eternal
mourning? He tosses and turns, the gleam of morning
barely filtering through the shifting water. Does he
see Enkidu’s face, contorted in torment, in the evanescent
vignettes that fall before his unseeing eyes? He
knew Enkidu’s end was coming, and now his soul is
blue-black with the sorrow and the grief. I
sometimes wonder if this pain is the way the world
I’ve spent so long bent over fragments that, no matter how much I try, refuse to stick back together. My fingers are scarred, and every session wasted in an attempt to superglue them to each other only results in fresh wounds over healed ones. Now, I stitch these old wounds clean. I know that it’s useless, considering the rate at which new cuts keep appearing.
My knees are so swollen, a constant purple-black from kneeling over myself like a mother mourning her stillborn child. I ice them over and over again, twenty minutes and then within the next forty-eight hours, I use heat to treat them. But I’m just treating old bruises and new bruises improperly because I don’t know which ones I should pay attention to, and I just…I feel such loss, yet I’m at a loss.
My life is a puzzle that’s missing far too many pieces for me to complete. I go searching in other boxes to find them but always return with one far too small or far too big. I overturn the pieces in frustration, only to go crawling back and murmuring useless apologies while trying to make everything okay again.
Again. What a strange concept. It’s hard to think of a past, when, and where, everything was okay.
"I even hear the mountains
-"Consummation of Grief" by Charles Bukowski
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
climbing a chapel of dark vines…
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead."
the entire lord of the rings from the rings perspective
hand hand river dirt gollum hobbits pockets pockets finger envelope fire hand neck neck finger hobbits neck neck neck pocket finger LAVA
it’s amusing that I number
each poem hours before I lay down
on a bed that I pretend is yours and
cover myself with sheets that I pretend
are yours. I’m already aware of this
impending insomnia that strikes
when I beg for some relief from
it’s all so predictable. I keep waiting
for something to change,
for some god to rescue me out
of this den of hungry lions that crave
for something other than the loneliness
that I’ve fed them for so long.
"Life is like watching Fast and the Furious 6. It’s not easy, most of the time it’s just dumb and pointless, everything is fake, there is a lot of noise, but if you close your eyes and picture yourself in an open field or a quiet forest, you can maybe make it to the end without killing yourself."-Jon Lajoie (via asterisk-)
it’s late, but maybe it’s early.
none of that really matters because
I can’t sleep anyways.
whenever I try to, I just find myself
imagining what your lips,
what your skin would feel like.
and lately, I’ve had to look,
every night, in the mirror for a visual
reminder of myself without you.
tonight, i pray that i will never wake up, that i
will drown in the welcoming sea, and that the
final release will be as sweet as it had always
promised to be.
tonight, i pray that my cerebral cortex will
sever, that each breath passing through my lips
stop, and that the pulsing agony will stop emanating
from my chest.
tonight, i will lay down my unclean head on a clean
pillow and dream of a life not lived, of the pain
i would not have suffered had i been naught but a
In a sea full of people, I am completely alone.
I see the faces that fall before my eyes, leaving naught but the impression of burning, consuming flames that glow in their eyes. Their souls—souls that could be eliminated with the slightest breath—illuminate only for that single moment. Even the strongest fire has a weakness.
I sat there. The glass of water that had once looked half-full looked half-empty. My fragility rattled my bones, but I didn’t feel vulnerable—I merely felt alone, as I sat there on a queen-sized bed in the Harvard Square Hotel, conveniently placed a two minute walk away from Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It seemed strange that the majority of these attempted self-murders occurred in a place that wasn’t home.
I sat there on the queen-sized bed. It was nicely made, but gravity pushed my mass downwards into, ruining an otherwise neat image. I counted on my fingers. Tonight, there were three attempts. I recalled, just hours earlier, shuffling to a CVS Pharmacy about a block away at about 9:30 pm, way past the curfew that the chaperons had set for the unruly group of teenagers that had come along on this unfortunate trip. It was strange to see so many people unable to contain themselves at one time.
I kept telling myself that numbers two and three were failures. Four wasn’t going to be one.
There was still melting snow. For a fleeting moment, I felt a rising sense of annoyance that the salt that saturated the melted snow would eat through the soles of my boots. And then I remembered that it didn’t matter anymore.
The doors to CVS were open. I looked around, and I felt disappointed at the lack of pharmacy. I overlooked my idiocy and saw narrow steps that led upstairs, which lead to my discovery of a significantly warmer floor. I found a bottle of ibuprofen and took it to the checkout counter.
A young Indian lady took the bottle from me, and I could feel her disparagingly regard me. I knew that she secretly hated me for coming so late to the pharmacy, probably keeping her from going on social networking sites on her phone like she, most likely, had been for the past few hours. I knew that she’d only do so after I left until her shift ended.
I left the pharmacy. I didn’t bother with a plastic bag. I didn’t want there to be any issue with where I got the ibuprofen. I could hear the dancing pills in my purse. They were so loud. I wish’d that they would stop celebrating. Why would they be?
I checked my phone. It was nearly 10:30 pm by the time I had trudged up the concrete steps that reverberated with bangs and squeaks with any form of pressure.
Second floor, room 211? 213? Maybe it was 217. I couldn’t remember, as I sat there on the queen-size bed. I clearly remembered, however, the sense of abandonment I felt when I saw that my roommate had, once again, departed to go to “our friends’” room.
At least there was some privacy. I prayed that she wouldn’t be the one finding someone to kick down the door. Despite the bitterness that welled up in my chest, I knew that she didn’t deserve it.
There were clean glasses lined up next to the television screen. I took one and filled it with water.
And I waited.
I was lonely. My own loneliness forced me to recount all those previous failures, even starting from one. Two and three were similar to one another. They both involved throwing myself in front of objects traveling at high speed. Number two was at the T station. I wasn’t fast enough, and I timed it all wrong. The subway train slowed and stopped. I remember standing on the yellow strip that regulation dictated me not to stand on. My hat almost flew on. We all got on the train to take the Red Line back to Harvard Square.
Ten minutes later, the lot of us were walking back, all twenty-eight(?) students with four chaperons trudging in the thirty-six degree weather. We approached a crosswalk. I was balancing on the curb. The wind from the passing cars that “flew by” (really only going about forty miles per hour) buffeted me. My mind paused as I looked back at the cars rolling along. And I slowed down. I embraced vertigo. I started falling.
I had traveled less than half a foot when someone grabbed my backpack. Now three was a failure. I sulked in my room for the rest of the night because I didn’t die.
Two days had passed since. The bottle stared morosely at me. It stared at the glass of water next to it. It stared at the messily written and short letter that displayed itself against the last sheet of one of those notepads that ever hotel room has. I simply wrote “love one another,” quoting George Harrison, but it felt cruel to leave no closure. The front and back of the small sheet were covered with scribbled black ink.
There wasn’t much left after that—I remembered as I sat there—I started taking the little scarlet pills. I’d taken three when someone knocked on my door. Someone seeking refuge and comfort while their roommate sorted out problems with an ex-boyfriend. I escorted her to another room.
And now I was back to the start. The bottle was hastily screwed shut, proving it difficult to open again.
Forty-seven pills were left in that bottle. I calculated that I probably needed at least twelve, fifteen, or twenty to possibly cause irreparable damage to my stomach lining. Thirty to forty-seven would be a guarantee of organ failure. I reminded myself that equations didn’t matter. It was yes or no, true or false.
I liked that idea.
My roommate tried to open the door. The deadbolt was on and I closed the bottle again, crumpled the note up, and opened the door. She stayed for another twenty minutes, making sure that the chaperons would believe that she would be safely ensconced in a hotel room before making a swift departure once again.
First attempt of that night, number four overall, was a failure. I counted the one after that an attempt also. All the doctors and therapists I’ve talked with agree.
But twenty minutes later, I was there again. I looked at that bottle. I felt that there wouldn’t be enough water left in the glass to swallow all forty-seven. I’d always suffered from a particularly strong gag reflex.
I emptied the bottle into my hand. Finally. Release. The beginning of the end.
The phone rang. As fictional as it seemed at the time, (and it still does to me today,) I’d been interrupted three times within the span of about two hours. I gave up after the last time. I was too tired.
Two weeks after I returned home from Massachusetts, I was in the hospital for the second time this school year. I possessed a pretty impressive record by that time: six suicide attempts, countless scarring, and now, a second hospitalization; all occurred in a span of less than half a month.
It’s now been three and a half months after numbers two through six.
I never thought that there would be an after.