Dots and Lines
When I was younger I would eat cottage cheese with a pineapple slice. But if I took up a pencil my hands were too small and chubby to grasp it.
When I was six I started to see someone to talk with, and at nine someone for little blue, pink, grey, and yellow pills. I tried hard because I thought my family would let me go, but nothing would work.
Then when I was nine I strapped myself down and saw my terrible line. I decided to draw a dot and put an end. But then I realized I was a child, and I went to my parent’s bedroom.
When I was sixteen I started to lose a lot. My mind started to betray me, and I lost a lot of control. But instead of finality, I drew seven permanent dots on my body for my family members, and they did the same.
Then at eighteen, I start to contemplate myself. Because now my mind is showing me violent lines on my body. I don’t want to die a sorry death, but the fear is that I no longer have control.
At eighteen I have too little control to take myself out of this line. When I was sixteen I was capable of drinking at my own breast. Unbirthing myself and leaving in a cradle of my own craftsmanship. Now I’m fetal again.
When I see my knife or pen and the abrasions and blood, I’m looking like that naive nine-year-old. I’m half a life younger and I’m being handed instructions from a parent.
Next, I’ll leave a note and weep like a baby boy, and again see those horrible blue and red lights. The calm but terrifying voice of a man wearing a badge and thick padding.
Maybe I’ll go to a hospital and some machines will let my heart draw a perfect, flat line. I might be alone or with some of those people that I’ve dotted myself with.
Maybe I’ll go to a hospital and the beating of my heart and beeping of the machines will signal a different path. I’ll go to a different hospital and be stuck scratching lines in my journal.
A self-destructive nine-year-old dying and grasping onto my parents’ hands, but hesitantly looking at what the future has to hold. I’ll say Goodbye today or after a hospital stay.
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