[references to suicide + self-injury]
while you’re home for the holidays, don’t bother unpacking your suitcase. like everything about your youth, the nights spent in your childhood bed will be quick and fleeting and temporary.
by some inexplicable force, carry yourself to the closet that shelters the boxes and crates and storage bins of your adolescence.
open everything. i’m serious, everything. i found the singing card my neighbor gifted me on my 13th birthday: seventeen years later, the song sounded haunted and unrecognizable when i opened it. i unearthed the notes i passed with my crush during social studies in seventh grade. i blew the dust off of home video cassettes i recorded with my friends on my dad’s camcorder — was my voice really that much smaller than my body? when is the last time i laughed like that, as if the full-belly contractions doubled as chest compressions that kept my heart pumping? was i happy? was i —
put all of it away.
find the memories you keep hidden. you know the ones: the memories no one else can access, the ones no one else knows exist. mine are underneath my bed in shoeboxes, pushed out of reach from long arms and vacuum cleaners.
ask yourself why you kept all this shit. after all this time, did i really need to touch the deconstructed handles of the cheap Gillettes (but not the razors themselves, thank god); a piece of paper that was covered with, in my handwriting, i want to die over and over again as if my journal was a chalkboard, and i was writing those lines as punishment for believing them; my suicide note, and another; an empty Ziploc that most certainly once held pills, or sour gummy worms, there’s really no way to be sure; a perfectly preserved church program; ribbon; shoelaces; bobby pins; a key to a home i no longer have.
i’d recommend putting away everything you’ve uncovered, but i’ve never been able to do that myself, and i am no hypocrite. these memories are stuffed under my bed, but also within every crevice of my brain matter. i wanted to unpack these boxes to convince myself that my depression was different than i remembered, but it turns out, the depression is exactly as i remember — i was different. i was someone who kept these mementos, not out of sentiment, but with the same motivation of any sloppy killer: i wanted souvenirs to remember how badly i hurt myself.
i’d also suggest throwing away these items, but again, i am no hypocrite. if i throw away these reminders, the only evidence of my pain will be my existence, and i am no longer hurting badly enough to remember the gravity of it. i don’t want to forget how it felt to hate myself, but i can’t live with this baggage anymore, so i try, my hardest, to keep it somewhere far enough away that i can’t touch it, but close enough to the surface to exhume when i am ready to examine these versions of myself i have buried.
Last week, my poem AFTER ATTENDING OUR LAST-EVER CHURCH SERVICE, I WALK WAITH GERALD AROUND THE WACO SUSPENSION BRIDGE was published in Third Street Review. I am always so grateful when my poems find a home (and a revised version of this poem may or may not be in my upcoming poetry collection!).
Special shout out to anyone who has lived (or experienced) Waco, TX. When I moved there, I was told that you could go to a different church every weekend of the year and still not attend every church in the city. For whatever reason, that fact(?) has never left my brain. I really miss a good Dr. Pepper, though.
Recently developed the most insatiable Julia Wolf obsession. I fear she’s all I’ll be listening to for the next month, at least. FYP is the current fave on repeat, but I have yet to listen to a song that’s not an absolute banger.
all the love, all the warmth, all the light,
i made a doc full of book recommendations for people who want to read more poetry but don’t know where to start!
don’t forget to complete your one click today to support aid efforts in Palestine
unfold: poetry + prose, is available on amazon, bookshop, indigo, b&n, or wherever you get books <3
you can still buy paper girl from amazon, barnes & noble, indigo, or your local indie.
i love you. and i see you. and i am so glad you're here.
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who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.
who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.
if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741
S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)
Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237
RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673
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