I threw it on the ground and burst into tears,
watched my cocktail of pills spill across the carpet . . .
I never really wished for death
but the thought gave me comfort over the months of sickness.
If she died, I’d die –
there was poetry in that.
I brought the cancer when she gave me life
and in the cancer’s death, so would be my own.
That morning came and the pain came and the tears came . . .
yet one by one I put the pieces of my security blanket into the garbage.
Perhaps there was poetry in that as well.
Though the life inside me wasn’t quite . . .
I pasted smiles across my face,
carefully sliced myself into pleasant and colorful die-cut shapes,
stuck myself to anything that helped mask the dysfunction.
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months and months into years
and still they would all say I was strong.
All I could see was weakness . . .
the attenuated will to die
produced a guilt I wore like my funeral dress . . .
a garment that accentuated my identity –
a darkness covered in flammability.
There was a failure to extinguish my life
and a failure to truly live . . .
caught in limbo
stopping only on the poles of numbness and melodrama.
Adulthood came and I ventured out into world,
determined to prove myself worthy,
yet still caught in the monomania of guilt and self-deprecation.
Spread myself thin as communion wafers
and allowed creation to swallow my body.
A lifetime within a lifetime spent chasing monsters
and it took my own creation of life to realize they weren’t real.
I stared into blue eyes cradled in my arms
and I breathed for the first time in 9 years.
Finally alive and grateful for my once perceived weakness.