To every three times I contemplate suicide,
On the fourth, I look up at the cotton-candy clouds and realise
How some habits are as vaguely delightful as pink, sticky fingers,
Covered in grime and longingness.

I am a euphemism for escapism;
I delight in playing noughts and crosses with my panic attacks and anxiety –
Whoever wins, I lose.

If I could be a punctuation mark,
I’d be an ellipsis…
For all the unfinished sentences and interruptions
That contorted themselves and snuggled under my skin
Like monologues I dissected at the operation table,
Desperate to find an answer.

My depression cloaks herself like Snow White’s stepmother
And presents me with the poison apple of self-doubt –
Only I sink my teeth into it, mistaking it for Hope.

People who try to tell you that mosaics and kaleidoscopes are beautiful
Are often the ones who use ‘broken’ as a synonym to describe people –
Little clockwork toys
With the spring twisted the wrong way,
For isn’t it carnage, regardless,
Even if you hemorrhage internally?

Between you and me,
We don’t kiss and tell if it was more cigarettes or regrets;
We let the embers die and try to trace a constellation of what remains.

19 June 2018


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