a question most have
but none ask:
life has so much more to offer,
it gets better,
what the fuck do they know about life?
suicide is more than the wrist cutting,
head-in-hands teenager pictured on billboards
alongside a 1-800 number.
depression is wanting to poor a glass of
dad’s whiskey and swallow mom’s
bottle of OxyContin.
depression is taking a shard of broken glass
and slicing down, down, down.
anxiety is standing in an open road
and hoping a few hundred pounds of
metal can stop the endless flood of certifiable thoughts.
anxiety is feeling the blood rush to your head
and staggering across an empty room--
cheap vodka in hand-- and telling yourself you’ll never go that far again;
but you do.
you go farther.
you open the bottle of pills,
write the notes,
look at that mess of disheveled hair in the mirror
one last time.
and then you stop.