The pen quivers in my hand.

Do you think
ink can cut as deep
as slashes
along a same old
angsty
millennial
teenage
girl’s
wrists?

Ah, I forget.
I can’t run the excuse of being a teenager anymore.

I suppose…. that would make me a regular, troubled adult.

Who wants to die.

Everyone wants to die these days.

At least, they say they do.

Blood.
Not dripping quite the way I want it to.
Blunt knife.
Refusing to rip through
pretty little skin
that just won’t scar,
quite the way I want it to.

The world never changes.
Grey, grey, grey.
Do I need new sunglasses,
or is this how it’s going to be for the rest of it?

It’s tiring.

I love rollercoasters, but it gets tiring.

One moment you’re down;

Down in the dirt,
Clawing up, clawing up,

Fingernails caked
with the blood of dreams
you sacrificed
for a front-row seat
of a ride going down a road
you never mapped;

One moment you’re down,
down in the dirt,

down in the self-dug hole of pity, of malice, of self-inflicted begrudgery—

and one moment, you want to die.

Another moment you’re up;

And it’s a beautiful view
from way up;

Strong winds,
Clear skies,

Sinuses filled with the
minty scent
of peace, of calm,
of oblivious fulfillment;

Another moment you’re up,

And chalk it up to two decades of experience,
or at least a basic understanding of common physics,

but from way up,
with throats mid-scream and hands in the air,
the only way you can look,
the only way you can make yourself look,

and another moment, you want to die.

Again.

It’s always the “again.”

A never-ending string of “again.”
“Again’ plastered on every word in the dictionary.

Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again. Again. Again. Again.

I want to die again.

Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again. Again. Again. Again.

I’m so happy again.

Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again. Again. Again. Again.

I want to kill myself again.

Again. Again. Again. Again.
Again. Again. Again.
Again. Again.
Again.

Push pins.
Leather belts.
Fingernails.
Scissors that can’t cut shit.
Knives.
Blunt knives.
Sharp knives.
Kitchen knives sharpened by other kitchen knives.
Tragically generic sleeping pills bought over the counter.
Alcohol.
Green Cross 70% isopropyl alcohol.
Daily overpass climbs.
Fangs and claws.
Spotless white tiles as seen from
the fourth floor of my favorite mall.

Again.

It’s always “again.”

Never enough to turn “again” into a “finally.”

Never enough to turn “again” into a “please, just let me die.”

Never enough.

Always never enough.

Always never enough for anything.

The pen quivers in my hand.
I continue to slash.

– “Again”

LL.

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