The Burial 

For eighteen years
Breathing was not without 
Joy pouring out 
Too loudly in
Frenzied conversation.
Interruption –
Need’s release. 

Thoughts married to  
My urgent vocalizer 

Passion surges out 
Tongue alive 
Lips move 
Frenzied thoughts released 
THISISME.

Gelatinous organ now

PRESSES

What’s Left of my porcelain shell.
Till furrowed brows
Almost reveal… 
But no,
The Right one,
Is the gooey gatekeeper of
My vociferation.  

Later they’ll find

Scratch marks inside
My ovaloid coffin.
 

Just One Chapter

Stumbling over invisible rocks and reeking of ethanol, he left the pub, turning right as usual, and walked home along the river. His arrhythmic steps clacked against the wet pavement. After a while he came upon a beautiful footbridge he hadn’t remembered seeing before. Looking around for landmarks, he saw the tree with lovers initials carved and the large unusual rock with the moss, this reassured him he was not lost. 

The bridge itself was quite plain, but what made the bridge so beautiful was the lovely girl gazing into the water.

Uninhibited and aided by inebriation, he approached her. He offered his assistance in tasks that were vague and unneeded. “I want you to be happy, let me help you.” 

“I do not need, for I have nothing.” She replied.

He looked at her puzzled, was she dismissing him? He didn’t want to bother her, so he continued on his way.

There was something about her he thought, an aura maybe? No, it was the fairness of her skin. Whatever it was he knew certainly that she was good. 

He pondered her claim as he neared the broken concrete steps leading to his home. He felt bad for the girl really. She must’ve been some sort of begger. A clean, well dressed, beggar. He thought that maybe he should invite her to spend the night. But although she was awfully clean, a home was no place for a beggar. Too many valuable possessions.

Struggling with the key, he eventually opened the door. Forgetting about the girl, he made his way to the toilet, vomited and fell asleep on the shower rug.

The Threshold 

Where do we break? Between composure and infantile wailing? Euphoria and irritability? Comfort and pain? The pain that pushes you to the point where suicide makes sense. The threshold is lower in us. They try to raise it with pills and therapy and sunshine, so it can’t easily be breached, but it dangles over me, just out of my reach.

I jump for it over and over, wishing I had longer arms or legs. Sometimes I’m weighted down and can barely get off the ground. And if I’m lucky it soars out of sight and I am happy to not have it rest so close to my head.

That line, that threshold, the difference in us is that we see it. Discuss the risk and benefit, what society won’t admit. This makes us real. We do not pretend it is out of reach, that breakdown, that violence, that final breath. We know it is closer to us, our eyes are open.

Admitting it’s existence pushes the breaking point a bit further away. But it is still near. There is comfort where there is pain. It’s an angel and devil, not so far away. That lower threshold, some of us reach it anyway.