Talking--mouths moving senselessly,
words coming out, strands
of syllables: nice pleasantries,
clumsy in their avoidance of my recent
confession of self-harm. We speak
of books, of spines of books,
of silly college boys and breakdown-
inducing classes. Endless cycles.
"Take care of yourself," S says
because we both know I won't.
Rough few months. Nerves split
into splintering slivers for reasons
I can't exactly say. I'm quiet when I slink
down the stairs to open up
the cupboards, force a few pills down
my throat--shamefully, the only
way I can sleep anymore.
But at least I don't self-harm, at least,
at the very least, I'm not suicidal.
The silence down here is comfortable--
until I realize it's been a little while
since I last breathed, and I have
to resurface, come up for air,
slide back down again, sometimes hope
I'll never wake up, never wake at all.