drew roses
all over the house
the day I told them
I wanted my own funeral.
I downed a bottle of pills and gin,
forgetting that by leaving
I would be imprinting myself
in the very people who breathe
my name in prayer.
I stay awake now, listeningto the beats of my own heart
over a monitor.
My mother told me in the psych ward
in the days after I tried
to take my own life
that I am meant to live a long time,
and she smiled.the life she dreams me to lead
reflects no more than in that smile,
and I am left
standing at the precipice
preparing to be taught to fly
during the fall knowing
I do not have an option.
I was born into a day,
screaming bloody love–
the kind that caressed me
sweaty cheeked and bare,
the kind that has never forgotten
my first steps,
the kind that wept harder than I did
when the girls at school called me names:
that is the kind of love
that is my story.it is not written in the melodies
of trauma rehearsed by my veins
nights when I can’t sleep.
it is not in the pain I’ve held
wrapped around my fingernails
digging into the flesh.
it is the love,
the enormous, pure, powerful love,and that is what
I return to.
I tried to take my own life.
I failed.
I woke up
never having knownmy life as quite
the miracle it is.
it is the loveI return to.