Self-diagnosis (Part 1): October 28, 2016
i am the worst
kind of roommate
i drink your coffee
cook with your extra virgin
and i don’t ask first
i leave dishes in the sink
if you ask why
i’ll just say
which is a child’s
tantrum way of saying
i didn’t know better
and i’ll throw in
for extra measure
to keep the beat
and i know
that ain’t enough
don’t pay the bills
sorry don’t marinate
don’t keep the mice
from this harvest
and if you got
something to say
i’ll be in my room
crying to Sara Bareilles
and Goodbye, Love
on repeat until i die
or the xanax kicks in
so tell me how
tell me how to feel
tell me to
and you’re speaking now
so many words
and i hear you
i’d say something but i can’t…
so depressed over here
Self-diagnosis (Part 5): December 7, 2016
today, the man you love will never love you
he leaves you for the 3rd time in 7 weeks
over the 4 months you spend not being
anything to him worthy of a name
today, there is no shame in the fact
that after he leaves,
you get so drunk at a bar
you go home with a couple
you have spent only 15 minutes dancing with
that is enough time for you to say yes
when they ask you to get in the car
it is the first time you are
having sex with someone in love
it is okay that it is not with you
right now, their love is enough
it is okay that this will not be enough tomorrow
it is okay that you want the woman more
her touch is gentle and she asks you for nothing
she says she will take care of you
and you know she means her tongue and not her heart
but today it is enough
she tells you, you are beautiful
and it is okay to believe her
though you don’t want to be beautiful ever again
when the man puts his dick in your mouth
it is okay that you do not want it
though you thought you would
it is okay that it is too soon
to be with another man
that you want him to remind you
of the man you love
and he doesn’t
he reminds you of all the men you fucked before him
all sweat and dirt and wanting you only for a night
it is okay that sometimes you feel
the man you love only wants you for a night
and it’s just that that night keeps happening
it is okay that after the sex you go home and cry
because it is too soon
because you have to learn that the hard way
today, the man you love is probably laughing somewhere
he is probably happy
he is probably not thinking of you
it is okay
today, you laughed and were happy and did not think of him, too
this will keep happening
today, you imagine what it would be like
to have sex with someone in love
who asks you for nothing
he knows you can not give him,
who takes all that you can and gives it a name
a diagnosis you can live with
and you think of how the other diagnoses,
the ones that require medication and patience will not scare him
it is okay that the thought of this makes you cry
that you are hurting
though you thought you wouldn’t
because you didn’t think you were even capable of love
because you didn’t think anyone
would want to be with you in the first place
and someone wanted you for four months
though he does not want you now or in the way you need
it is okay to need, Taylor
because you are human, Taylor
and humans need
today, you wake up on the couch for the 5th day in a row
it is okay that you don’t know
how to sleep in your bed yet, it
with all its space and empty and cold
where a body used to be
you wake up in pain and tired
it is okay that you are tired
it is okay to want to forget for a little while
it is okay to close your eyes to all of this
so sleep, love
today, let’s just sleep
Self-diagnosis (Part 6): December 13th, 2016
I’ve begun the business of killing myself slowly.
I’ve only had coffee today, and
it made me feel like I was either going to throw
up or pass out on the train ride to work.
I still feel it twisting my guts into a splintering.
I think to myself, oh what a beginning!
The doctor this morning tells me I’m such a good patient cuz
I take shots so good. Funny.
I’m here cuz I take shots so good.
I cry when she leaves the room.
Because what if I ever loved myself as much as I distrust gravity?
If I loved myself as much as the chemical imbalance is
indifferent to the suffering it causes.
The doctor comes back, says to put my clothes on, that
I am good. to. go.
I am stone faced after that.
I have a jaw built of the memories of every person
I’ve let into my mouth who I knew did not intend to stay.
And all I can swallow now is my pride,
is acid, is the promise to never eat again.
Yeah, that’s part 2 of the killing of myself!
The body consists of, what, only 70% water?
I welcome the challenge,
chase the coffee with Poland Springs,
wonder if I can drown myself this way.
My mother texts me, asks me how I am.
She texts again 2 hours later when I don’t respond.
I say I’m fine
And I am. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
I’m finally sure of something other than
how well I sleep alone, how I don’t move in my sleep,
how like a corpse in a casket I’ve already been.
My best friend texts me, asks me how I am.
I say I feel like I’m dying, but I don’t tell her
at whose hands or that I’m begging myself for this.
She tells me, it will get better.
And I believe her.
It’s just, I don’t want it to.
For what? To be back here again next week? No,
I want to sink into the moon’s deepest crater.
I want to disappear into the fog, evaporate and dampen all of your faces.
This is how I will cry from now on, be the rolling mist
on an abandoned building’s windows.
The doctor said she’ll call if anything comes up positive.
The latest boy in my jaw said he’ll never call again.
My mother says she will call later
to ask if I’ve made it home,
though I don’t know that such a place exists for me.
Positive, Never, Home.
I wonder if the slowest way to kill myself
is to never find a home.