Category Archives: Suicide

Where Can We Go To Mend?

When the fireworks sound like bombs dropping on this land and the shouts are like the screaming of our red skinned brethren being torn away from home, when 13,000 years get swept under the red and white carpet, we are banging on drums and linking up arms to say don’t forget we were here and we still exist. You can’t bandage these ancestral wounds. What you are doing to the others that came here from afar, we still carry that scar. They all have a place to seek refuge in our home and Native land, but where can we go to mend?

Who will protect us from our government? It’s a true testament of the Aboriginal spirit that this heart knows it’s own truth no matter how deep you try to bury it.

 

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Canada, Canadian, Cree, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Ojibwe, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Rape, Spirit, Suicide, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, writing

Seeing Through the Dark

Your eyes; two crystal balls bright as stars
burning through the dark.
How could you see where others blindly dance?
Opium in place of lithium.
Decimal points on a chart,
indicating deficient blood.
What he did in the dark,
you could see in the dawn of
a new existence.
Segments of double helix strands
bent on self-destructing,
whilst the bang of moonlight,
shot white fluid
replicating self-perpetuation.
Years later, she would liken
this to being mangled.
Others would call it birth.
Hum drum of planets,
ringing euphoric,
while I wake up mute
to this strange discord
they call music.

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Filed under Bipolar, Borderline, Depression, Illusion, Memory, Pain, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Vertical Over Apical

Memories travel in reverse, like spilled fluid up the cup before it was broken. Irony is I am awake at 2am reviewing chapters on the subject of sleep. REM decreases. As we progress closer to our death we spend less time dreaming, is this because we are closer to finally waking up? She sits in a white chair with a red glare projecting from her eyes. I envision her scalpel as she slices each neck, void of any emotion, this is purely professional, harvest the brain to study the cycles causing disease, be present at the hour of decay, sit at a temporary table and drink something permanent. Drink in sunsets, red dots on white flags, dotted lines: vertical over apical, swim out among a metaphoric sea of trees, hang myself there, like an ornament out of season.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, writing

Superficial Images of Harmony

In line for photo day, mother smothers

Covergirl and others to conceal what is real.

On each face there is a veil of joy, disguising true emotion.

A family of 5, but only 4 legitimates in the picture,

the other is the ghost of a girl, appearing as a halo of light,

which gives the finished image, a burned appearance,

where truth singes.

 

In front of others, this feigned affection & attention

is heaped like toxic sugar into the cups of company.

When the guests depart, the smile turns to tight lips

and searing eyes, “you are the reason we fight,

you are the cause of our misery, your very

existence was an accident.”

 

I think of how beautiful an accident can be,

crushed bones on concrete, from a 10 story fall,

but I decide instead on living and smiling just to spite them.

Smile, no one cares how you feel, smile to conceal what is real.

Keeping up appearances is what garners true admiration,

look at her, so together, meanwhile the thread on her sweater

tied to truth, is so easily unraveled, like a wound,

they hoped to keep hidden by a tattoo symbolizing

harmony.

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Filed under Abuse, Past, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Call To Serve

Eccentric hoarder in dilapidated mansion

RN,

gives me advice on survival.

Says I stand at a new plateau,

in her time what was known as controversial

was abortion.

In my time, assisted suicide.

holds up her hands in the shape of a triangle,

epic symbol,

for the fundamentals

encapsulating our scope of practice,

like an exoskeletal prism.

You think naively thus?

No.

The doctor only writes the

script,

the nurse follows it.

Thus, the needle,

through the administered I.V,

of a prescribed O.D.

 

Sudden flashback, lacking LSD,

I see myself in recovery,

my first gold pendant, symbolizing one year

of sobriety, with the ever familiar

polygon, encased in a circle

representing wholeness,

teaching us to give back in service,

but my question has always been

this:

who am I serving?

In this case the vulture

in the syringe.

As I turn to leave, she looks

me firmly in the eye,

through the blur

of her cataract,

says she admires my calmness,

something she never had,

instead she screeched her way out of

service.

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Filed under Nursing, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Brave

​Brave we are:

when the father is a ghost

when the head of a beloved doll rolls 

across the wooden floor 

of a vacant house

when the mother cuts her finger 

across her swollen lip,

when teeth fall

before their time is up.

Brave are the children

of the aging woman

whose reality forehadows the

dream.

When the child, so worshipped

falls sick, 

when there is a blackness 

darker than when they

put out the forest fires

in his head.

When bringing your child to the doctor

for mental malaise is as healing

as bringing him to the undertaker

on the street corner,

of an overpopulated city,

which gets glorified by how high

its towers rise,

and how far its people fall.

When I told my hero

of her braveness

she cried

and said she was nothing.

She was nothing,

dressed in denim on a hot

summer day,

to stop the U.V rays,

from making thymine dimers 

in her RNA.

Sodium channels

flood her face, submerging 

the pain in her smile.

A fist full of forgiveness

for the man who did this,

her hero of nothing,

paternal wolf, 

whose eyes eat the children,

whose lust burns the forests

into clay, which the rain,

makes maleable again-

shaping out this brave image

where we fit into nothing.

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Filed under Abuse, Addiction, Death, Depression, Disenchantment, Displacement, dreams, Loss, Medical, Overdose, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Silence, Sobriety, Society, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, writing

On reading the diary of Virginia Woolf

A small bird flies into the pupil of her eyes, from where it begins to rise, as her tears fall. The wooded path, down which she travels, on her late night rambles, where the colour of the deer match the brambles. It rises there in green light,flooding through thick curtain, collapsing, wingspent on the forest floor, where it comes to rest in the thicket evermore.

Yesterday she was gold plated, gold is not meant to crack in thin line, where falsity falls from fingers, grasping at quill, until this sentence takes flight, by a height of such altitude, paving way for a depth of demise. The bird in her eyes does not rise any more, will not gather in tangled domesticity, will not show signs of sanity, i.e, does not behave obediently.

She shines the silver carefully, and minds the manner of her tongue, lest it be kindling for flame, as smoky sentences rise from pages, where she leaves behind traces of truth, until the waves open the sea, swallowing her heavily under. Outwards and inwards, with no warning of the incoherent tide within her mind.

New dress replaces old, she says she inhabits it for 10 and 11p, at the table forlornly, she scribbles down her reality, what to me can only be a memory, preceding an emotional Holocaust, as the gas chamber glare of her vacant stare, goes unbroken for a century.

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Filed under Feminist, inspirational, Journey, Lesbian, Life, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Virginia Woolf, writing

Holocaust

You tie your laces and pull two faces,
one for the stage, one for social graces.
Your black shirt stained by a silver star,
symbolic of the vertical scar on your wrist, flickering in tandem with your pulse, a passing ideation, a vulgar fascination with love, a holocaust, a permafrost of blood coagulating like strangulating sunflowers in a field of hate. You awake again at 4:48, the world disintegrates, nothing stays in place, it all unravels like knotted lace around your jugular, dangling at the end of fascination, the end of circulation. You see a silver star and follow it, it floods the stage, blinding the audience in awe, there’s a long pause followed by a loud applause. You exit with no memory of the tragedy. A beautiful amnesia drowns you in silence, waves of violence wash over your face. The mask falls and shatters, cutting the crowd from view. If looks could kill, there would be a holocaust in my heart for you.

For Sarah.

I had a dream on July 28/15. I was riding in a bus with a strange girl. She had a dog with her. She told me a story of how the dog once bit her. As she recalled her experience  I stared down at her exposed skin, her chest and arms were covered in scars and needle marks. She told me she just let the dog go on biting her because she didn’t have the strength to stop it. I recently read the complete plays of Sarah Kane, which are very horrific, intense and annihilating, but also poetically brilliant and beautiful. There is a play she wrote called 4:48 Psychosis in which the female character spirals into a psychosis that inevitably results in her suicide. Sarah Kane titled the play based upon a time in her life when she was undergoing immense psychological agony. She kept awaking every morning at 4:48 am. Eventually she lost her battle with depression and hung herself in the King’s College Hospital with her shoe laces.
On the night of the dream I was sleeping with her book above my head. Afterwards I awoke and stared at the neon numbers on the clock, 4:48 glowed eerily through the darkness of my room. I shivered with dread and went back to sleep again. My girlfriend in Greece attended the memorial of
Λευτερηs Βογιατζηs , a remarkably sensitive theatre director who adapted her work for the stage in Athens. His memorial was held in the theatre, his coffin was set up on a stage that had sunflowers rising up from it as was written in Kane’s plays. I watched the service via an online newscast. My girlfriend and her mother looked so morose in the crowd. She told me she had a surreal  dream in which she was in a theatre and she saw Sarah Kane. She went to kiss her and Sarah put her hands in front of her to stop her and said “there’s no point , I can’t give you anything, I’m dead!” It’s so haunting  how these coincidences happen. I don’t believe they are anything less than synchronistic fate, a streaming of the psyche into waking life. The title of the poem was inspired by this dream and also by Sarah Kane’s play called Clean, which was written with the concept of love being like a holocaust.

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Filed under Cleansed, Crave, Depression, dreams, Poem, poetry, Suicide

Variations on Black

In a world of shallow we know the cost of everything and the value of nothing-
no thing of worth from this accidental birth.

When I came here I laughed.
“It’s a box” I said,
a coffin, “I’ll take it.”

“A box of darkness, a gift.”

I was oblivious to the black scuttle bug living under my counter, it was oblivious to me also. The beetle had flown in from outside and thought he could occupy my place. I caught him trying to eat spilled sugar on the floor, then the black bastard was no more, swept up and flushed down into the waste waters.

For a moment I thought I might meet a similar fate..

voices, bumps in the night, a strange new world to inhabit, “take the belt” it said, “tie it around your door, be here evermore.”

Fuck you black bastard, no!

I won’t join you.

I burned sage through open windows, brushing away the decay,
and since that day, no more,
not often anyway,
only when the world of obligations gets tight around my neck do I think I might hang on a revolving door
between heaven and hell,
all the same.

A moth the size of my hand and white like a ghost flutters by my window,
I hear it’s wings flap up & down,
it’s fascination flickers
in the dark hollow where I drown.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Emotions, Ghost, Grief, Identity, Pain, Poem, Suicide, Verse, writing

Alive (an interior dialogue)

Stranger: I think you feel things.

Self: you think wrong.

Stranger: you have a sensitivity.

Self: like having a burn.

Stranger: but it’s beautiful, it makes you real.

Self: it makes me nothing.

Self:  *stares at arm, winces at transparent  scars*

Stranger: you love with courage.

Self: what is love?

Stranger: what you feel.

Self: I feel nothing.

Stranger: you lie.

Self: always.

Stranger: why?

Self: it’s easier.

Stranger: easier than what?

Self: easier than burning.

Stranger: but the sun is beautiful.

Self: I prefer the moon.

Self: *stares out the window at the dark sky*

Stranger: why?

Self: it doesn’t hurt us.

Stranger: but what about the floods?

Self: it’s better to drown.

Stranger: * takes a sip of wine, pours more.*

Stranger: what about your father?

Self: he’s dead, suicide.

Stranger: liar.

Self: self-destruction.

Stranger: lies, don’t glorify it.

Self: father is sun, mother is earth.

Stranger: and the moon?

Self: my mistress.

Stranger: bullshit.  He was a junkie, she was a lost cause. He’s not a God just because he’s dead.

Self: we’re all dead, existentially.

Stranger: and what about what he did to the others?

Self: spiritual dissociation, sick, dark sick, dissociation.

Stranger: and the heroin?

Self: his salvation.

Stranger: love?

Self: a broken arm, a syringe stuck in, the sun, the moon, the earth, all of it.

Stranger: and then what?

Self: we bleed.
         we’re human.

Stranger: but of course what else could we be?

Self: animals.

Stranger: animals are more gentle.

Self: only because you think you can tame them. You can’t.  We’re all wild inside.
Power is illusion.

Stranger: and hope is futile they say; life and death choose us equally whether wanted or not, choice is also illusion.

Self: it’s both ugly & beautiful. “We can make a hell out of heaven or a heaven out of hell.”

Self: *leaves*

Stranger: where are you going?

Self: to the forest, the mountains, the sea.

Stranger: nature.

Self: solitude.

Stranger: animals.

Self: spirit.

Stranger: freedom.

Self: salvation.

Stranger: but why?

Self: I am in it, it is in me.

Stranger: you are real.

Self: cancer is real.

Stranger: you are nothing.
                 I want to be nothing too.

Self: you are.

Stranger: I feel it.

Self: feel what?

Stranger: alive.

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Filed under Conversation, creative, Emotions, Heroin, introspective, Memory, Poem, Suicide, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

To live

When I was a baby a window fell on my head,  it gashed open an artery. My aunt rushed me to the hospital. She held me in the car, wrapped in blood soaked towels,  gushing crimson. Her husband laughed  as she wept, ” she’s going  to live. ”

When my baby brother jumped on the bed,  he gashed his head open on the dresser and I screamed and cried in horror.  My parents laughed at me. ”he’s going to live.”

Then a van ran over his head and they blamed me for not watching  him.  I watched as the wheels slowly crushed his skull. I heard the crunch of rubber and bone.

Now he drinks his insides open.

He’s  going to live.

Isn’t it funny?

When does the living stop?

At seventeen  I jumped twenty feet off the bleachers.  My leg hit a metal beam and gashed open.  I took one stitch for every foot I fell. My partner was not as fortunate.  She jumped down to save me.  She shattered her spine. My mother came to see me in the hospital. Flesh, bone and blood. ‘You destroyed  your leg  my girl.’  That’s all she could say.  Congratulations

‘You are going to live. ‘

But I wanted to die.

I wanted to die.

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Filed under Alcoholism, Broken, Death, Desire, Memory, Mortality, Narrative, Suicide, Trauma

Jesus Christ of Urgent Care

Sky colossal in it’s charcoal depth,
mouth pitched black where they forced me to drink my salvation,
nurses at the station laugh at my situation,
another O.D for ward 3.
Neon sign over heaven reads; “closed.” 

Stripped down,
dressed in gown & gauze,
no fluffy clouds,
only a chalky film on my tongue,
distorting my words into something disgraceful,
distasteful.

I.V drip,
sanity slip,
curse of concavity weighing
down my soul,
mouth full of charcoal.

Heavy nod,
intercom
paging God,
white lights,
fluorescent glare,
Jesus Christ of urgent care.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Grief, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Suicide, Verse, writing

What if

Power lines and the thought that I could climb.

Your hands gesticulating, motioning me back into a feathery bed of passivity.

The pillars of the bridge engulfed by the engorged red, unattainable love I felt, swirling in violent cyclones of possibility. If I stand and watch the swirl of water, like a small child who perceived herself a screaming fish, spiraling down a drain, lifeless. If your mouth could kiss away the death that overshadowed my withering frame in the halls of a consensual prison, we called work, then nocturnal birds would have never watched my mother from the post facing east, and signalled the ominous, the premonitive , what if…

What if she slept and I was the night guard keeping watch over spirits? What if I stood on the boxes in the back room of the building and tempted my fate with a rope and a crate, tied around a beam, leading somewhere I had once been before this life? What if that exacto knife hadn’t opened my arm and caused such alarm among us? What if when she slept I found bottles of Captain Morgan’s and took the keys to one of the vans in the driveway, took a hose from the industrial vacuum and shoved it methodically, one end in the tailpipe, the other in my mouth, with the doors locked and the radio playing what were meant to be the last songs I heard as I stared up at the starlit sky drinking 21 shots for every year I was alive.

What if all of this and still you took me home and held me by your side until that storm subsided? You laughed and chided my attempts at life and death until I had given all I could of blood and sex to you, and it left me in stitches.

Then a girl turned into a woman and kept walking, unconvinced by your feigned displays of love & mercy. A girl who was nothing more than a serotonin depraved burden to your artificial, feel good, polyana ways.

Climbing power lines, shirking the electricity, jumping twenty feet into nothing for you. It never ceased to  amuse, you wanted something more substantial, like semen and the demon of a vacuous tube, sucking unborn dreams away.

But what if your fingers were razorblades and your lips were a red abyss and every kiss you gave cut into me with the thirst for something deeper?

Things at which you smirked and slithered away, cowering. With the “oh Gods and what nows” when I played Anathema or Theatre of Tragedy, and you walked out of my apartment unable to bear it.

You were the amusement whose pleasure wore out on me. When you could not abide my pain or sustain my darkness.

I surged on alone deeper and deeper, further and further away from you, towards a city where a tenebrous girl flicked her blond hair and noted the sadness behind my smile, able to see more deep, able to keep shadows.

Remember when I told you I was lost? You said you would send a taxi to find me, but you fell over and nearly dropped the phone when I told you I was across the country, where I’d gone on a whim to reclaim something that never belonged to me. So she didn’t and you don’t and what does, belong to me? The names of constellations, the origin of beauty?

Or just this…what if?

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Filed under Bleed, Chaos, Control, Death, Depression, Drowning, Fish, Freedom, Loss, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, writing

Catalysis

This air I breathe under black sky where slivers of light splinter my eyes.
Here in the opaque ether of nothingness, the attempt at snuffing out my own life like a candle.

The things one can handle.

You asked me how I feel about our love, a stagnant, musty room atop an island, pervasive, toxic.

Nothing thrives in places where light and oxygen are stifled.

Take this beautiful rose outside and let it thrive, let it be penetrated by the sun. Let it’s vines wrap the entire city in a thorny embrace of passion, let the pierce of this desire spill my heart like wine.

My life lies in transmission, with the keys in the ignition and the hose in my mouth, a vacuum of molecules make up the constellations between our bodies.

All the smoke fills my lungs, burns my nose and throat, deep chemical romance on tarmac with no soul in sight.

A mother discovered in ice, preserved.
A child’s potential never realised
But I reach for the stars and land on the earth, too fragile for this.

Take the hose attached to the windpipe, exhausted by loving things out of sight, set the sky on fire, no return destination.

Black spores of desolation capture my breath, under an inflammatory sun rise.

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At 21 I tried carbon monoxide. A catalytic converter kept me from dying but not from lack of trying.~C

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Filed under Death, Depression, Displacement, Suicide

Darkly through a cage

Depression does not lead one to see shadows differently, if you hold up blots of black and ask what I see, I am the blot, and depression is the shadow, what I perceive is nothing; the black empty space from which all things came, and the same blackness to which all things eventually return. I see an opaque abyss of engulfment. I see the blot as a blotch, a mistake, a chasm of regret so colossal no bridge could be built to cross it. I see myself under a microscope, this sea of black encompasses my existence. You try to capture the deluge of my sadness and the result is a multitude of stains from the many blank pages I have bled out on. Your stitch work on my soul only makes my pain more tolerable to you. You want me to create a passage in my mind from which this agony will find release, the release is the agony, once that is free there is only the mind and it’s delusions of happiness. You prescribe song to a bird whose heart is muted, feed hope to one with clipped wings, fated to live her days in a cage. If I reach far enough, could I surpass the blot that keeps the sun imprisoned? But I have no ambition beyond this cold clasp of time which locks away my dreams.
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Filed under Depression, Shadow, Suicide