July 29th (pt. 1 of 2)

I don’t think I could ever forget the
sensation of floating.
Slipping,
hydrocodone dreaming,
clammy hands scrabbling on the carpet
to count love on my fingers.
Because each pump of my heart needed a name
and a face
and a smile to
make me believe that I am wanted
or show me that I was writing a
tragedy on my hips and
in my gut even after the murky tear tracks dried on my skin.
But, in reaching out to death,
I felt the snap of static before we touched
and took a deep breath,
despite the heaviness of my heart,
my mind, and every one of my limbs.
I cannot say exactly what made my eyes flutter open to
watch the ceiling shift, and
whisper to myself,
“I’m going to die.”
Sigh, and then,
“No, I’m not.”
I crawled.
Heaved myself onto a chair.
With shaking hands and blurry vision,
I typed
“help”