A moment with suicide

I’m overcome with the feeling of things being taken away from me.
This sofa I lie on, worthless, but still they’re coming for it. My children’s home, my things, worst of all, my pulses and heartbeats, one pump after the other, gone, never returning and soon, they’re coming for the rest.

It was my lowest day since my father passed.
Death stood hovering, lustfully whispering in my ear, the top of my eyes heavy as I pen this in hope it is merely passing.

Suicide has always been repulsed by me, and I by it. We could never agree, it wanting swiftness and I wanting a spectacle.

But yesterday something happened for a moment, a reconciliation if you will. Perhaps it was courage catching up to fear. Perhaps then a duel was about to take place, let me set the scene.

If anything, it will be in the desert, a fitting backdrop for solitude that they both abide by.

My fear has always walked alone, marred by hypocrisy and sin, let us amuse ourselves and reserve to it the idea that it is embarrassed.

My courage too, alone and aware of its extremities. I once wrote, ‘I have extremes so far fetched of so far fetched’, and now perhaps you will see why courage, like fear prefers to take the solemn footsteps away from the crowd.

But this backdrop of a desert couldn’t be more fitting. It will make legend out of this allegory of my moment.

I rose from writing, head still throbbing, eyes still feeling like they were pulled down for a lobotomy and I undressed to walk to the shower. Perhaps I could wash this feeling away, I thought as I had an inkling of sense still remaining, tugging at me to not pull the pin, surely ablution would rinse this evil out of my soul.

But it grew and I could feel the devil inside me growling with such anger that it drove me to raise my hands to my face and place my fingers on my eyeballs. ‘Gouge them out’, he said.
‘Then what?’ I replied.
Silence.

He’s a prick of a bloke. He entices you with rose, wine and a whisper, gets you intoxicated on his voices, scented and in love with him, commands you to evil and then washes his hands clean from you once you’ve committed your deed.

Then he was gone.

I finished, dried and got dressed. The feeling waned but lingered faintly.
Suddenly, it daunted on me and I wondered where this feeling came from.
It has me confused and misplacing my demarcations between a trigger and a pen, a sword and words, a semi colon and a full stop.

I don’t know exactly what to make of it,
I won’t discuss it with anyone,
and yet, here I am writing about it,
the only way I can express anything these days.

Was it something I ate,
or was it a taste of my fate,
delivered to me in surrealist carrot sticks,
not dangled, but on a plate.

W.E.

Why I have no friends

I don’t trust a man,
who hasn’t tested the edge of his being,
with poverty,
his confidence,
with the threat of violence,
or his resolve,
with solitude and loneliness.

They’re measures,
which every person must pass through,
to determine the fabric or who they are,
to sell the world,
their humanity,
if not the world,
then at least the person you want to associate with.

I guess that is why I am mostly alone,
my yardstick and most of society’s,
don’t measure up.
I don’t reconcile well with the mundane,
nor the flamboyantly sophisticated,
and the people I’m attracted to and they me,
ironically don’t associate with me,
in concentric circles we move to and from each other,
perpetually.

I don’t trust a woman,
who sees being and existence,
through monetary markers,
her metrics of madness,
cannot reconcile with my propensity to violence,
at the drop of a hat,
towards a man that oversteps their mark.
She can be comfortable,
with the cushion of society,
that will constantly break her fall.

She can be seen,
for all that she wants to display,
there are always other eyes,
other hearts,
mine,
will never engage,
always caged.

She has no lashes she can buy or flutter,
no sigh she can moan or mutter,
no breast, she can heave,
nothing to sell me that proves she has a real pulse,
except a wayward gaze beyond me,
and to the creator of me.

Yes, I have trust issues,
and it is not without merit,
ashamed, guilty binding seams,
I let my ability to read people,
way before they commit to me their secrets,
contain me,
but when time and time again,
there it is splayed before me,
it reinforces that I knew well the truth,
and ignored my compass,
my distrust in people,
then becomes married to the distrust in myself,
and that is a knot I can never undo.

W.E.

dear grief – 15

 

Bring a man to his knees why don’t you,
until his savage is all timid,
and his temperament livid,
and he can’t fight you with his vulnerability,
or console you with bloodied fists.

One way or the other,
you’re going to smother,
with your blatant honesty,
and impartiality,
try as I may,
to perch, or even impale,
my grief, is better suited to flight.

W.E.

dear grief – 13


What riches do I have,
that I can give,
that can expiate me,
or expiate him,
that aren’t from God to begin with.

What a fool I am,
assuming I can bribe my way,
out of grief,
out of guilt.

Or am I being held to ransom,
by my self,
of myself,
only to come to comprehension,
too late,
with too little left to give.

W.E.

dear grief – 11

Reluctance,
is a spoon of regret,
mixed with the broth of fear,
and a dash of ego.

The medicine,
bitter as it may be,
has a limited time,
an appropriate window.

Late,
is not better than never,
it’s a lie to comfort you,
that you took way too long,
to overcome your self.

And now,
you have no one to grieve,
but your lowly self.

W.E.

-spineless

I’m not spineless,
I have an aversion to bullshit.

I’ll cry,
the hot tears,
the ones that have been buried so far inside you,
they can only be as warm as your core,
when,
and only when,
there is no bullshit,
or,
you’ve pierced that part of me,
hurt me to that core.

Otherwise,
you need me spineless.

You need me emotionally detached.

When  your world is upside down with emotions,
and you lose all sense,
Hyper-erratic, out of control,
and running on the wild bonfire of reactionary states,
you need me to rationalise,
to hold my steady hand over yours,
to stop the bleeding,
control your breathing,
and show you the order of things.

And there is order,
always order,
even in chaos,
the order even more so evident.

It’s the reason why chaos can exist.
and I, can swim in both currents.

W.E.

Art: Charcoal and Bone VIII by ~napoleoman

 

dear grief – 8

There’s nothing quite as sobering as grief,
to uncover the guilt and sin,
the grime within,
there’s no teeth gritting,
no blood spitting,
that can remove the angst from your jaw,
or the taste from your mouth.

I’ve found in all this haunting,
a special fondness,
a familiarity,
we all smother with inattention.

To look at death,
and not worry about the ghosts,
takes a spiritual anchoring,
a maturing,
a purge,
of all you fear,
an embrace,
so the memory of the deceased,
remains near.

W.E.