Dark Nights (Huge TW: suicide mention, self-harm mention, etc.)

Sometimes at night I
wrap a sheet
tight around my neck
watch my lips fade to blue

Sometimes at night I
write FAILURE on my thighs
in red sharpie BIG & BOLD
rewriting it over and over
until my fingers cramp
and then I write it again

Sometimes at night I
etch love letters
into my forearms
in a language only I understand
those tally marks
mean so much more
than you can see

Sometimes at night I
count pills instead of sheep
as if that would put me to sleep
as if I would actually take them
as if I actually wanted to die
as if I even had that choice

Sometimes I do these things
I’m not supposed to talk about
silent cries for help
behind a door
locked and barricaded

I have all these behaviors
these thoughts
these tendencies
that make them want to ship me
to the nearest psych unit
before I can open my mouth
before listening to my words

I have all these ideations
these images
of my own death
something clean without much mess
somewhere no one has to find me
some way I can disappear

Sometimes
people find out
because I was never
any good at hiding

Sometimes
people think I’m crazy

Sometimes
this crazy is all I have

Sometimes
I forget what’s real

Sometimes
people don’t understand

Sometimes
everything I do becomes a symptom
everything I say becomes a symptom
all my opinions become symptoms

I
become a symptom

Because I
don’t even know what’s real

Sometimes
at night I
practice my own suicide
draft notes to my mom
trying to explain it’s not her fault
always having trouble finding the words

And when I
run out of paper
or out of ink
or thoughts
or words

when my eyelids get too heavy
and my vision gets too blurry

I loosen the sheet from my neck
I wash off the words
I bandage the wounds
I put the pills away

Sometimes
at night I
do what I can to get through the night

Sometimes
my survival comes so very close to dying

Sometimes
I question if I’ll even get to morning

But
I always do

I always survive
and I’m thinking

someday
my survival might look
a little less like dying

Someday
my sheets will stay on my bed

Published by

Nic Rasmussen

A Brooklyn-based poet who has a lot of feelings and writes about them quite often.

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