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.
Poetry on Paper 