REGRETTABLY, I CAN’T CURL UP AND DIE
I.
One night,
Dad’s heart tried
to kill him
in warm blood.
Another night, Dad told me
somewhere in those ghostly proceedings
between sirens crying
like dying livestock
and dark, sweet surgery sleep
he thought and he thought
“I might die”
and he thought
“that’s not too bad.
finally.
I can rest.”
“Finally”
Final.
Fin.
like he’s been waiting for it
this whole goddamn time
like being saved was being cheated –
and there I was, just a kid,
just his kid.
Mom always makes the same joke:
if corpses shambled along the roadside
if the threat of nuclear warfare
became a promise
she’d just curl up and wait
to die.
“what would be the point?
what kind of life
would that be?”
I don’t know but I like to think
I’d wait to see
because maybe, maybe, maybe,
there’d still be a bright-feathered bird
and someone around to point and say
“look. a bird.”
I would live,
not because
of a valiant thirst,
desire, clutching
need or instinct
but because
it’s all I know
and because
I kinda think
the world’s already
ending all the time
and I already don’t
see a point
“but like, I’m still here, y’know?”
II.
One day, in tenth grade
“it’s kind of a funny story”
I was summoned by a broken loudspeaker
to the counselor’s office.
a forgotten assignment
and my thoughtless answer –
something about how nothing
mattered – which
she considered a morbid sentiment;
she said
“this is how people talk
when they’re having
suicidal thoughts”
I felt as if I was in trouble
and this was my first warning
and next time there would be
serious consequences
and being a model citizen at heart
I lightened up my eyes
and softened my voice just so
and could not explain that
“if nothing matters
we’re free”
instead I squeaked out
“I’m not -
suicidal, that is”
and walked away with a stifled laugh
and a pamphlet filled
with all sorts of numbers
hotlines, statistics,
and words like “emptiness”
with little checkboxes beside them.
I showed that pamphlet off
over sandwiches and milk cartons
proud, having won the prize
that badge which said:
“this newly philosophical schoolgirl
is so existential,
so nihilistic,
that we think she is sick”
I didn’t know yet, back then
that passive suicidal ideation
is suicidal ideation
because I thought it was only human nature
that the heaven-reaching fences
on the sides of high bridges
were for all of us, to deter us,
who aren’t determined to die
but might, if it seems easy,
pitch ourselves over
just to see
what happens
and let whatever happens,
happen.
III.
These doomsday preachers are full of shit
this is not the end of days
the end of days was a long,
long time ago
whenever we abandoned our pouches
of seeds and wildflowers
and stories and poultices and pretty stones
so we could pick up sharp things
to kill our brothers sisters babies
mothers fathers and cousins with.
At this point,
you and I
are just trying our best
to pick up the pieces
and build beautiful, brimming things
that remind us of
what we thought the world was –
could be, would be –
when we were children
who didn’t yet know
that the damage
was done.
Marley Sherwood, 22, USA ✯
“Marley (she/they) is an amorphous inhabitant of the Pacific Northwest. When they graduated high school, they thought they should try to study something useful, but soon realized they hated being useful and decided to pursue a BA in English instead. If you are interested in finding Marley in the wild, they may be found collecting rocks in ravines on the roadside, attempting to legitimize the study of Internet ghost stories within the field of folkloristics, or rescuing washed up worms from the sidewalk.”