Unthinkable...

Don't Stop

Resume by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

A poem shared by a friend tonight, as I talked to her about the weeks, I have been combatting depression. Or is it the bipolarity of what is giving me this instability? "I was walking away behind your back without letting you know about it... I didn't want to hurt you... You seem nice, but I have this gut feeling that you might hurt me..." 

Lying in bed, I have counted the number of scars I have created from the self-inflicted wounds caused by the glass, wood, or metal that has cut deep inside it seemed to have the most pain afflicted. Embedded, the hands are calloused from the hard work accomplished, the diligence is done, and the people assured they were going to be okay. Only to be told I was to inflict pain because it was a gut feeling. These hands, one burnt at 160, both iced at 12 below and shocked continuously, but kept on building it hurt. Crossed the road once with a blind man, helped a passenger back on their feet after they were found exhausted on the side of the road, and recently caught an elderly woman that was about to fall after making an unintentional twist on their walk. These hands. 

Unthinkable, the feelings I still have tacked on to me as the innumerable number of times I understood this pain was never going to away. Fought siblings, punched classmates, and looked at the end of each bottle. The fighter, yes I am from throwing punches to never surrendering the right for truth. Yes, the fact hurts but so is knowing there was a hand to reach out to allow opening in the precipice. There is the pain, there is anger, but these days these hands are meant for my angel. 

To ever hurt someone that is to someone who raised their hand against the ones I care about. These hands will bother no one anymore. Describing the very definition of what a monster is, that is how it is portrayed. The swing where the pendulum lands is a knife embedded in each hand. 

Fall is about the impact you leave,

Electricity crackles the atmosphere,

Burns smell on you

Stress breaks you further down, 

But if the world has ever taught the feeling 

of what it is to live again...

It's not the road taken down 

It's the feeling of where it was to live

again to the fullest.

So is it okay to live... again? 

From depression that eats you up, to where it will take you. Those things remain, the unthinkable of those three things. Yes, to keep things but never was the intention to call out the hypocrisy of what happened. To claim there is a way to prevent someone from taking their own life only to walk away and push them before preventative measures are made, that's not bravery... that's just cowardice. So why say otherwise? Painfully it hurts when there are emotional scars involved, but these days even the physicality of being hurt will always hurt. 

To hate absolutely and say no more of it therein lies the very moment where it is all said and done. It hurt being afflicted by the moment there was no more. Depression maniacally, hidden and denying it because someone else needs the help. Can I lay my head down to be hurt one last time by my hand to never know what it is like to wake back up again?