Maybe two more, perhaps, another one still?
I have choked on the plastic of twenty, two hundred and more,
Before I knew, on my knees, surrounded, empty bottles on the floor,
You have heard the sound of sirens, seen the flash of the lights,
Maybe once, maybe twice, heard them dozens of nights,
The sound pales to fear as the gurney’s seatbelt goes click,
The “do you know who you are, where you are?” tell me this!
Do you know what it’s like to be held to the ground?
A tube forced down your throat as you cry but can’t make a sound?
The taste of your stolen escape, vomit putrid on your tongue,
The chalk of the charcoal, black like my soul and the sun.
You may know the crisp smell of clean, freshly starched sheets,
How about the echoes, the white walls, felt the ache in the lost's shrieks?
The thud of your heartbeat as you pace through the hall,
The first time you understand how far an angel can fall?
I know firsthand, the shame and the scars, inexplicable desire,
Helplessly self destruct, burn it down, be consumed in the fire.
The tight rope of ambivalence, the desperation, the why’s,
Begged my soul to be free of the pain, body covered in flies.
Perhaps you’ve stood near the edge of a few dirty thoughts,
Have you recited your blessings while choosing your plot?
The confusion, dissociation, you and your reflection aren’t one?
Have you awoken, so fucking angry you did not use a gun?
These memories drift through my mind on nights such as this,
My affair with that sweet Temptress, Death and Her kiss.
Megan Jean Forrest. (Friday November 13, 2015: edited 2/25/2024
