Forget me not’s in plastic cups
You bring to your lips
To run down your esophagus
Like it is a drain and your body
The ocean where the rest of
Your being will soon drown.
A river of death but I am not sad.
This is the choice of the sinister
Twisted head figure that scurries
From bar to bar grasping
For that one last drink. Blacked-out
Is how you would rather be, but please
Don’t try to convince me
That this being is free.
The tide is stronger than it seems
And you are already caught in a riptide.
Bodies balance atop the bountiful seas,
Buoyant and battling a demon
Brought to you by the local liquor
Store. Blame the man. He surely put that
Drink in your hand. I repeat verbatim.
You sink voiceless. Only your eyes scream
And your skin sags but your mind is too dazed
To notice the water lifting you towards the sky.
If only you’d open your eyes and look up;
The sky is so peaceful and the birds still fly
Despite you feeling like you’re dying.
I won’t say “it gets better”,
Things never “happen for a reason”.
I speak to you in clichés because that
Is how the world will lie to you.
Don’t believe in bumper sticker talk,
Billboard promises, and talk show tales.
The news carries nothing new. To begin
Life anew it all starts with you. And yet
Here I am pretending to be speaking to
Someone else when I know all to well
That the “you’ in this poem is me,
And the feeling of dying comes
Before I take the bottle and only
Worsens after the twentieth sip.
I pace in my bedroom mumbling,
Crying, silently sobbing, sipping,
Gulping, drinking, bleeding from
The inside then purposefully
On the outside. This is life.
This is depression. This is the glorious,
Romanticized disease that carries
Me across the ocean after I’ve jumped
From the canoe, hoping to drown.
This. Is. it.