Last Night

Last night at 10,

I sat

on the edge of my bed

with my chin on my knees

and stared at the wall.

I thought about last years winter.

There weren’t enough sweaters

in the world

to warm the heart I had frozen.

Because thats the best way

to preserve meat, to stop it going bad.

But the icy shards stabbed

at my lungs and made breathing painful.

Made laughing painful.

Made living painful.

I thought about the way

I wouldn’t let the love I was shown

thaw my sadness.

At 11,

I reached

to the back of my wardrobe

where lives the onesie I used to curl up in.

I hoped it would warm me

but it smelt of year old tears

and only served as a reminder

that I don’t know how to cry anymore.

I’m not as small as I once was.

And it can no longer cover

the entirety of my blues.

At 12,

I glued pages of positivity

over journal entries from

a year ago, two years ago.

In some desperate attempt

to rewrite the past

and give the illusion I was happy.

I sat on the floor with a lighter

and tried to engulf my written history

in flames.

Thinking it could turn back time

and warm my heart.

I watched the smoke curl up

and settle a foot below my ceiling

without bothering to open the window.

At 2,

I stood in front of my mirror

with my fingers hooked around

the corners of my mouth.

Because the scientists say

smiling in turn makes you happy.

Something about endorphins

and tricking your brain?

But I don’t think scientists

have much experience with

feeling so numb you can’t cry

and so exhausted you don’t bother trying.

And I don’t think I can trick my brain

because my brain is me

and must know I’m trying to trick it.

At 3,

I swallowed two sleeping pills.

I lay spread eagle on my bed

quietly singing Hannah Montana

in one last futile attempt to cheer myself up.

Because you know what else the scientists say?

You shouldn’t go to bed upset.

But for three years of my life

if I didn’t go to bed upset

when was I supposed to sleep?

It’s not socially acceptable

to sleep at parties,

which was the only time I could smile.

As the chemicals forced me to doze off

I wondered what it would be like

to be neurotypical.

To not have most of my life experiences

moulded by chemical imbalances

and all my milestones associated

with how close I was to killing myself.

At 4,

My subconscious

showed me what I needed.

My dreams were filled with tears,

body shaking sobs that hurt my chest.

But my eyes were dry when I opened them.

And the only thing that hurt

was my lungs from the smoke still floating around.

So at 5,

I got up.

I opened the window,

and stripped my bed,

and took a shower,

and made an energy drink

that was ninety percent syrup

and ten percent water

to hide the fact I had barely slept.

Because lately I’ve been doing really well

and I don’t want my parents to worry.

I don’t want my friends to worry.

I don’t want you to worry.

But I’m allowed to have bad days.

Even bad weeks,

as long as they don’t turn into bad months.

They won’t turn into bad months.

I promise.

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