Jumping
A breath plus a breath plus a breath is a day plus a day plus a day. Looking back, I'm surprised I made it. I had to. My partner at work, minutes before he was fired, talked my breath into my lungs and through. That was before it all went really bad.
I made fun of his plan, his suicide plan. Sometimes it isn't even me, talking, lying to my bank, running to meet the dealer on the corner.
Later, a few days later, hearing the news via angry grapevines, the easy, understanding lifeline worker's voice stroking my head through the phonelines, it wasn't any better, hearing their advice. The next time you see him, the person you taught intravenous drug use to, the one who hated heroin, and was scared of coke, the one you laughed at, your purse filled with them, until he used, call 911 when you see him. Tell them you need and ambulance, and police, to commit him to a psychiatric ward, against his will, to drag him there, handcuffed, tied to a bed, no drugs to hold him, pain emotional and physical, eating his body toothily, that person that trusts you, the only one left on your side, with the feelings you know yourself, black mountains steep and choking on every side. Or, let him die. And then, well, if you think you feel bad now, four friends minused already, that same phone-call, it almost gets easier each time, now instead of disbelief, you guess it, hung about in the silent awkward static of time- when it could still be a wrong-guess, and that's all you can hope for. The one life that you're in over your elbows, you know the shadows in his heart, you know it all, to watch that jump, suited, tied, clean socked- into blood red jelly and crushed skull. The pillows still smelling like him, all the hate reversed to love, the negatives held clearly to the sunny kitchen window. Look idiot, look. Now you can see everything. Please don't ring, telephone. I can feel it, a pain reverb, coming down the wires, coming.
I made fun of his plan, his suicide plan. Sometimes it isn't even me, talking, lying to my bank, running to meet the dealer on the corner.
Later, a few days later, hearing the news via angry grapevines, the easy, understanding lifeline worker's voice stroking my head through the phonelines, it wasn't any better, hearing their advice. The next time you see him, the person you taught intravenous drug use to, the one who hated heroin, and was scared of coke, the one you laughed at, your purse filled with them, until he used, call 911 when you see him. Tell them you need and ambulance, and police, to commit him to a psychiatric ward, against his will, to drag him there, handcuffed, tied to a bed, no drugs to hold him, pain emotional and physical, eating his body toothily, that person that trusts you, the only one left on your side, with the feelings you know yourself, black mountains steep and choking on every side. Or, let him die. And then, well, if you think you feel bad now, four friends minused already, that same phone-call, it almost gets easier each time, now instead of disbelief, you guess it, hung about in the silent awkward static of time- when it could still be a wrong-guess, and that's all you can hope for. The one life that you're in over your elbows, you know the shadows in his heart, you know it all, to watch that jump, suited, tied, clean socked- into blood red jelly and crushed skull. The pillows still smelling like him, all the hate reversed to love, the negatives held clearly to the sunny kitchen window. Look idiot, look. Now you can see everything. Please don't ring, telephone. I can feel it, a pain reverb, coming down the wires, coming.
posted by tui at 1:35 PM
8 Comments:
Crikey...is this a suicide attempt by you Tui?
If so, then please talk to someone who can help.
No anon, not me+
I've been trying so hard to hold my ex boyfriend, like a match with too much flame, no room for fingers. Glowing, hot breath. I held and held. But instinct is stronger than love, sometimes. I flicked him away, when he needed me. He needed me too much, too often. Dangling, fingers unhooking one by one, a cliff to nothing, stones skidding from dry dirt. It's hard to watch, it's hard not to watch. Hands over closed eyes, I can see it everywhere I turn. I've lost him. And I was the only one who could help.
Tui:
Is he gone?
I don't know.
drama.
my own retarded soap-opera
Life is a soap opera. Except that no one I know has come back from the dead.
Jesus. Believe in Jesus.
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