V. H. King's Ink

CONTENT WARNING: this poem mentions self-harm urges and suicidal ideation

i spent half the day asleep
trying to convince myself not
to reach for the silver lining 
the inside of a razor. been a while
since i felt like bleeding out 
all my anger, frustration, despair.

only 18 months—maybe less, according
to some. 

gutted like this, my stomach stays
hooked to my tongue, hogging
the back of my throat. gonna be
hard to breathe, for a few weeks. 
a surgery soon, a funeral (maybe?)
and whatever shit im not remembering 
right now. 

barely 12 months in, this second
time around. 

no clue what's on the other
side of this. still unsure if i want
to live long enough to see it.
my therapist reminds me this
can't possibly last forever, despite
the depth of the nightmare. 

this isn't just 48 more months under
one tyrant.

i spent the second half of my day
finishing a painting i started back 
in September, listening to Seether 
and Stormzy on shuffle, anchoring 
myself in the work i can only hope 
reaches those who need it most.

36 months and counting 
since surgery—

but i was ill before all this, i know:
angry and afraid are easy defaults—
always have been—but I lived, anyway. 

sometimes you have to be angry 
enough to live, because that is your right: 
to scream, to dance, to cry. 
claim this devil's night as your own, 
for they'll make a demon out of you 
either way.  

candle of the day: Devil’s Night

playlist: Bring Me the Horizon, Childish Gambino,

Crown the Empire, Jaden, Seether, Stormzy