in the weeks that follow

there are frantic attempts to
fill the blank spaces,
any uncomfortable silence,
to pretend it was just a
fluke

[this time]

but when there's a history
curved and bruised onto my spine,
i feel the weight of
saying too much,
and simultaneously,
not saying enough.

i crumple and curl
into corners,
like an autumn leaf
left behind,
desperate for shelter.

i don't know how to act
when parts of me are
screaming, mid-battle -
a collapsing structure
with no promise of
a stable foundation.

i want to trust
that i can rebuild.
i want to believe
your words of faith
could lift my shoulders,
ever slightly...

but i can't promise i'll rise
and not fall back down,
an early grave beckoning.

fear becomes a funny thing
when it holds hands
with peace,

and the two become
one.

_______________________

inspired by b: william bearhart's poem "On Being Suicidal":
https://waxwingmag.org/items/issue20/3_bearhart-On-Being-Suicidal.php