William James

working class poetry // punk rock performance

LETTER TO MYSELF FOLLOWING A SECOND FAILED SUICIDE ATTEMPT


Hey kid, what the fuck were you thinking? Did you honestly
believe the lie that was fed you that life will never get any better 

than this? Did no one ever tell you that you shouldn't listen
to ghosts? What could something dead possibly have to teach you 

about the fine art of staying alive? You've put too much belief
in whispers, given credit to the chains they drag over your body. 

When you try to count enough reasons to want to wake up tomorrow, 
do you not realize the scraping sounds in your chest are merely 

the cheapest product of the oldest crime? There is a reason those eyes, 
candle burning in your haunted sky are glowing green. You still suck breath 

between gritted teeth in spite of the ghouls' most dedicated efforts. 
I know right now your wrists are spitting crimson. I know right now, 

you are trying to dry-swallow one more pill. Believe me when I say
even at your most embarrassingly awkward rock bottom, there is still 

a fucking thunderstorm tucked beneath your breastplate. The hypnotic
rhythm of pulse  in your temple represents one thing all the wraiths 

hovering above your bedside cannot have. Too cowardly to bloody their hands
trying to remove it by force, they instead resort to a weaker form of warfare. 

This black hole you are so desperate to drown in is nothing more
than a chemical siege they have laid on your mind. Remember this: 

you are not bottle rocket, but pipebomb. Not train derailment, 
but slow-burning fuse. You are not knife wound. Not sword-

swallower, not fallout. You are sky. When tomorrow spills
from your poison gut like shards of broken crystal, do not bother

picking up the pieces. It is not you who has shattered, only the glass.

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