Eflitum

you remain

this is a story you've heard before

blood spilling across a tiled floor,

splattering against the splintered mosaic

of the human consciousness—

Poison bubbling up from pale lips

as she writhed alone, that

that summer night.

People today are three times more likely to die

by their own hands than by

another’s.

But “I'm going to kill you,” is

a threat,

“Kill yourself,” is

just a

just a joke.

(Lighten up.)

Five out of five of your friends in high school—

five out of five tried‚ and failed.

and, from them

you learn how—

to gauge the depth of the fissure in your chest

to measure the width and diameter of each flaw—

how to weigh that against the people who would notice,

and again, against how much it hurts.

how to build these cages for yourself

until the only way out is

is

until it seems that your every mistake

is painted dark on your skin,

and no matter how hard you scrub

or bleed

you remain.

you can carve out the rotten parts of strangers.

identify the ones that can be saved

and the ones too far gone.

cut out the diseased flesh. it’s easy.

it's more difficult to turn that scalpel on yourself.

to twist it around and make the full circle.

difficult—

to be human is—

to have a hole in your chest

gaping, raw and bloody

light a fire within your chest

and fill your lungs with smoke

—red strings caught between yellow molars. still tugging, feebly

at hollowed bones.

cutting between your ribs like a loom

strands stretching like a harp

taut and humming and still.

you know that the problem isn’t the depth

or the radius of the hole

in your chest but its existence,

how entropy makes movement impossible

that the world seems hazy and grinding and slow and circular,

and useless,—

(and her life would wane and stutter—

As she bared her soul and cut her

wrists and bled her sins out from flesh

into something thinner, red and watery,

peaceful under fluorescent lights,

and let it rest.)

I can tell you that this is a story

I've heard before.

there are no happy endings here.

Only hopeful ones.

Yet—

your flaws go further than skin.

there is an aching hook across your jaw, across your throat

teeth too sharp and eyes too dim—

your fingers curl within the cave of your own existence and you can never reach the flesh

depth, width, radius,—

Some worth is unable to be measured.

and you try it like this,

a park, on a summer’s day,

which still feels cold,

sunlight feeble like early spring.

But the bees here are ambling and slow

And you let air fill your lungs, not cold or burning,

But warm and sweet with sunshine and chlorophyll—

It’s strange that this world can appear so dark

as to make the void appear lighter.

This isn’t a cure.

There isn’t a cure for this.

You tilt your head back

light spills onto your face like water.

This wonderful existence.

Branches arcing high above you, leaves splayed like fingers—

quiet and heavy and tall.

you feel how

this world could be

so wild and so free.

blissful in a way which

solitude could never achieve.

(it’s not over

yet

but

it could be,

someday.)

and you—

Cast your anchor down.

Throw yourself down.

Curl your fingers through warm sand,

And breathe.