My So-Called Life

I want nothing but my own
fixed geography, away from
cigarettes, from beer bottles,
from the brutality that repeats.
For hours, I have thought of
vanishing. Of scattering old
condoms, forgiving the last
three years of my life.
Promiscuity is the least
invisible guilt. I cannot walk
home without middle fingers,
without another policean
kmocking on my door at 3 am.
My pets are afraid of me.
My brother cannot talk
without anticipating fists.
This distancing is enough to
make anyone suicidal. I have
thought about drowning in
places where no one would
think to look, my hair wrapped
around the outline of my neck.
The violence is not what terrifies
me. It is the idea of vanishing,
of disappearing into ash without
any language to calm my family’s
infinite sadness. The writers of
the world want me to believe
that life is an act of kindness.
I have not preserved my space on
this planet because of someone else’s
compassionate acts. I do it
because there is no easy way to
explain the rope around my neck.
I could perform a half-assed suicide,
one that confines me to a mental
but does not dismiss my body to
its original nothingness. I have
imagined attempting death this way–
the bracelets, the stripping,
the medical number tattooed
on my wrist. My family would never
be willing to stomach that idea,
and I do not blame them. Death
is its own language. You cannot
intend to kill yourself without
a group falsely blaming themselves
for your irrational aches. Do not
kid yourself. I want to apologize
for whatever it is that coaxed me
into thinking about knives. But
that would be unecessary. I am
not a morbid person.
I just forget how important
my stupid life is to everyone.