Suicide and Lemonade

It's vulnerability that makes depression feel so romantic.
The surrender of self while I let it invade every piece of me.
That slow, cathartic death.


But I'm terrified of how well you dress as empathy and imagination with a sensitive disposition to match.
You would win any costume contest.

Remember that time you put metal to my veins? 
The scar healed well.
I also thought you should know my neck wasn't even bruised.
Good thing that belt is soft leather.

And anyone who says live like your dying is an asshole. 
They have never received self-esteem via orange bottles.
They have never been dripping in compassion and still wondered how many percocets it would take.
They have never tried rationalizing with the purely irrational.
Don't they know there's no negotiating with terrorists? 

Now I've been in bed for two days without having slept at all and I'm so afraid how easily I can detach myself from anyone but
I like myself.
I like myself.
I like myself.
I like myself.
I like myself.
Wait.

Let me start over.

Go fuck yourself.

I was told to make lemonade just because you gave me lemons.
I'm told it's likely you will never leave.
I'm told I should get really good at making lemonade.

Go fuck yourself.

I know your address.
It's the intersection of psychological-sovereignty and self-love.
You annexed my most aesthetic streets and made them ugly.

So I'm running to where you live to throw lemons in the living room window with a death threat attached:

Dear Suicide, 
when you come crawling back expect my foot on your throat and a shotgun to your teeth while I scream,
"You should have killed me when you had the fucking chance."

Because depression isn't about attention, it isn't about under-appreciating the people around me and it isn't about a girl.
It's about finding lions in my lungs and gasoline in my guts because this is the good fight.
It's about washing my car when there's a one hundred percent chance of rain tomorrow because I want the best for myself starting right now.

No more waiting.

It's about staring at futility and laughing because death will come but not from you.

Besides.

I don't even like lemonade.

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

spfaiella

Holy shit this is amazing. Like, just absolutely amazing. Thank you for this. 

YourChapstick

Thank you so much! I'm really glad you like it. It means a lot!

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