What I’ve noticed
is that most of my poems
are either love poems
or suicide poems.
is a love poem
who wants to commit suicide:
Here is a confession:
I don’t have all the answers,
but if you need them,
I can look for them.
I will turn over all your heavy rocks.
I will come to you with handfuls of dirt and bugs
in hopes that maybe, these are what you’re looking for.
Maybe, you could be happy with the things I hold in my palms,
but I know this isn’t enough.
Like for example,
I am not sure how to heal bruises.
You can heal wounds, and
you can glue broken pieces together.
But how do you heal a bruise?
You let it hurt.
You give it time.
You take extra special care of it,
and make sure you don’t hurt the same place twice.
I will turn your blood into sand when I touch you.
I will sculpt your skin into an hourglass so that
you can learn the meaning of patience.
I can’t be there to loosen the noose around your neck,
or to catch the back of your coat as you fall off a rooftop.
But I know
that even if I were there,
I would not have the strength to carry your body home.
So I’m asking you to please not do this.
I don’t want people to forget about you.
When disaster happens,
people care for a day,
but then they move on because they have to.
You are not an idea that someone can just get over.
You are not a trauma or an accident.
I want your existence to scream into people’s ears.
I want you to remind people every day
that you are here and that you have a right to be here.
6:26 p.m. (There can never be enough love poems to suicidal people)