I would love to give up.

A few nights ago, I realized I would love to die. I know I should know better.

i.
'there's a second hand that holds mine, and stuffs all the words back down my throat.'
she rasped
her voice a crack--
a croon

sticks & stones breaking
snapping
between her teeth

but when she tries to find the sound
her pen runs dry
pencils break

can someone flip the switch to 'yes' or 'no'
because
lately
i've been so de
tached

& my head is saying 'maybe'

(i  would ask myself,
but i don't trust liars)

ii.
she tries to string the words
down a thread
but they always crumble half
way
through

(the cinders b u r n
with the same old  questions)

& when you turn
to ask
she'll be gone

there are rocks in her throat when she asks you to help her.
the words grind to sand on her tongue.

iii.
smoke in her head
wet ash
smeared across her hands

her fingers are broken;
c
  r o
o k e     d
bones

she reaches for some kind of
truth
at the corner
& turn of each & every page

(she cuts her finger
pushes it back
down
     again)

staring:
hospital white & night-dark
with tears
& dry-mouthed screams

she remembers
last night
all too well

vi.
widdled down:
all my mind settled on
gritted teeth
fingers crossed & broken

dis                      connected
chewing concrete
when i said 'it's okay'

maybe once i could have been                                            together
(shame is a scalpel
a brick wall
down the back of my throat)

v.
so i'll scribble a few more words
about sickness
& hope it keeps it
down and out of
my head today

--
Nothing is wrong. It's just my head; my fucking head won't just let me be. Won't leave me alone. I'll be fine again tomorrow morning. I promise. I promise.

I am one of those people who would gladly give up anything for talent. Unfortunately, I lack both.