Poem

Obsessed,

I confess

“I love you”

to anyone who will listen

And to those who are no longer listening.

Chris, Jono, Christopher…

All of whom were, at one point, my only listener.

But apparently, hearing “I love you”

for days on end

gets tiring.

I wouldn’t know.

The doctor tells me it’s likely my depression;

it makes me think bad things that aren’t true.

There’s only one problem:

the bad things are true.

So I keep treading water,

but I can only keep this up for so long

before I drown.

I tried to drown myself in the bathtub

but couldn’t figure out how to

keep my damn head under the water

long enough to die without sneezing.

Even though I hurt worse than

anything physical pain dares to touch,

I can’t help but wonder if my

old heroin habit ended prematurely.

After all, if opiates can’t touch the pain,

what can?

As Van Gogh famously stated,

“This sadness will last forever.”

I am almost afraid to die, for fear

of this pain following me into the afterlife,

haunting me,

forever.

So I keep treading water,

but I can only keep this up for so long

before I drown.

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