what tomorrow brings.

xvi. pardonner et oublier.

xvi. PARDONNER ET OUBLIER.

this is not a poem, it's a plead for help.
the clock reads twelve o' one am, it's getting harder and harder to breathe. death almost sounds comforting, almost because i am nothing more than a coward. i couldn't kill myself if i was given the chance. a loaded barrel, the trigger mocking me. a knife holding a reflection that is not me.

this is not a poem.
i cry while i write this because this is my only way of asking for help. my mother tells me it's hormones, i lie through gritted teeth when the doctor asks me if i've had suicidal thoughts lately. if it's just hormones mother, then why wasn't i taught in health class that self harm was a way to relieve yourself after a tough day. how come i had to learn that the hard way. split my wrists open, a self examination in the bathroom just the floor above you, yet you never even realized i was doing it until months later. threaten me, send me away to where they lock up psychopathic kids, but maybe that's where i belong. maybe they aren't psychopaths, maybe it's just their hormones.

this is not a poem.
it's my way of explaining that there is a chemical imbalance inside of me that makes me super happy one minute and the next, a complete nonfictional zombie that doesn't have the ability to hold emotions. i bite back at bones that only hold good, apologizes are lazy even though i mean it wholey.

this is not a poem, it's a wake up call.
i'm not sick, i'm not crazy. i'm depressed. maybe one day, my mother will understand. doctors will see the tall tale signs of how my hands shake nervously when they ask how my intake of medication is going, why i'm asking for more when they were meant to last me a month. maybe then, i could stop writing poems that only have words that carry sadness like it's their blood in their own veins.

this is not a poem,
but it might as well be.