on the table:
bottle of pedialyte,
my phone always ready with
the safecall.

today I am afraid of water intoxication,
encephalitis, parasites, random
things, things not imminent
or even tangible like failure.
some of my friends.
this cavern inside but I’m full of
wormwood     a liter of water
phone
always
ready
dial 9
with the
        dial 1

safe call

(i won’t make the mistake of trying you again)

dial 1

and don’t tell them you’re suicidal.
and don’t trust certain people.
and don’t take too much mugwort.
AND DON’T FALL DOWN THE STAIRS.

4.

on the table now–
Bali Gold, glass of water,
Prilosec both for the dizziness
and potentiation. plus
vitamin c. plus
magnesium to lower the
tolerance. plus turmeric
for inflammation which I found
can also up the buzz.
leave the gummies for now.
I take a stem too.

eventually my legs seized a little.
or, well it felt like my arms were gonna bend
back, or well, like everything had a
mind of its own.
I’m vomiting in the toilet
but forcing it and drinking
a glass of water every 3 minutes.
there is this thing called hyper hydration
that can swell your brain, I tell him.
I’m pissing a lot and
it feels like I will eventually
cease breathing but also like it’s a far way away
and I just gotta sit in a spin with a blanket
around me, tremoring.
also im hearing a few voices
and a woman in the toilet says
you’re doing great, stay grounded.

but honestly
I’m fine. I’m not suicidal.
I just want to have a
good time

4.

some friends don’t care about red flags
but i’ll waste one poem on you
and it’s this.

that was the first red flag..
please never come back and be
careful what you wish for me
as mirrors have a way of sort of
pushing you head first into them.

 I recall sort of hand crawling
up the stairs drunk,
had been slurping the eye dropper
of a THC tincture, vodka based,
until I finally just drank the jar.
spinning in bed,
feeling my dad close to me.

he would have wanted me to relapse.

3

it’s hard to say when it started:
when they fed me black tea with milk
at 6 pm when I was only 8, or
the thought of it; I saw
an elegance in the way my aunt’s neck
bent to meet the lighter,
maraud about the backyard barbeque
with a red Irish Rose smile
in a blond bob wig and tan,
        even with thin hair, we can succeed
or when I felt the burn of
it in my chest for the first time;
the clear fire and courage
to approach
anyone, anything
with gumption.


it’s not sympathy I’m asking
for but an understanding
you can’t possibly imagine
unless you live it.
we are born with it:
the constant want,
desire to be both content
and normal, but also elevated
in euphoria even while
just grocery shopping,
feeling a tingle as you
palm the tomato,

yes, yes
tonight will be excellent.

1.

but you can always make it better.

2.

I’m suicidal.
(don’t tell them you’re suicidal)

“I’m not suicidal. I’m fine.”
there’s a telling pause but they are exhausted,
diverted by their self obsession,
clueless.
“ I just want to be seen.”

every time they slap the bracelet on,
relief. like a falling blackness
lifted to reveal a net,
a retrieval.
a temporary spark of light
in my persisting
midnight.
“I’m fine.”

“the hospital series”

“I just want to be seen,”
I am looking earnestly up at him
confused about why I fell down
in my house and couldn’t get up easily.

I’m, at this time, 34 and
my blood levels are fine but
I have taken
and I begin to list
them…

ma’am, are you suicidal?

“the hospital series”

sitting in front of the fish tank
again,
after now having what i believe to be
my 9th panic attack,
there is a man with his ear
bleeding.
I am familiar with this place.
“I’m fine.”

you can take your knives in here.
they didn’t even notice my taser this time.
I am concerned that I am going to
suddenly stop breathing one day.
and you will,
the little girls tell me,
if you keep mixing drugs this way.

but remind the audience that no one ever believes you
as a precursor to understanding how
badly

you

just

want 

to be seeeeen.

“the hopsital series”

but i’m a martyr for this,
I crave
repercussion;

even self-abnegation
needs an audience
or else it’s just plain masochism
                  lonely and caustic
without the gentle recompense,
the moist poultice,
the final amends:
the touch of her
sadist’s fingertips
after she laid her.

all cathedrals use pain as payment
and my crucifixion,
while self inflicted;
is just as spilling brook,
and baneful.
my bloodletters will wash
the splashes from my feet,
take their time
with each laceration;

stitch
my gashes
into temples.

“Lilith”

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