I keep daydreaming about the rope 

and how each thread would feel against my skin. 

The image of hanging myself

has replayed in my head again and again.

This isn’t a cry for help,

it is just truth spit into the dry pavement. 

It is chalk images washed up on blacktop

and dead leaves swaying to the ground. 

It’s grey heaviness even when the sun is out.

I keep picturing myself hanging

and wonder if my feet will kick.

I see my limbs dangling. 

How high would I have to climb 

to snap my neck?…

And this isn’t a cry for help,

I’ve learned that for me,

living will have to be done for others.

It is just the truth in the empty drink

and the dirty dishes sitting in the sink.

The truth of a broken heart 

and wishful thinking. 

It’s that overstimulation which comes from emptiness in crowded spaces,

It’s knowing I have to stay

even if I am sick of “spaces”. 

I take a breath because I have to…

For Zane and Zade. 

They keep saving me day after day

even when I can’t find the strength

to want to stay.


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