inkskinned

he says,
“this is a suicide poem,”
makes a joke about it,
doesn’t hear the echo
of my rope harnesses
and leftover blood stains
that don’t wash out
of my family’s brainstems

he says, “don’t try this at home,
kids,” says robert frost is chronically
depressed, laughs because the bird that
lives inside him is still singing

but me, my canary is long dead
because each hollow cave between my ribs
has long been filled with poison

love, do not joke about depression:
we are all pretending we are
diamond mines where there is only
coal, we are pretending not to hear
our emptiness howl -
love, if you are a teacher,
be tender, be sweet

you never know how close to death
are the creatures in these seats.

"I dont feel like the amazing, compassionate person people say I am." /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)