Curled into a ball on the bed. Better off dead. Better off dead. Relentless mantra in my head. Better off dead. Better off dead. Turn on back and before my eyes, life’s report card flashes by, a bottomless column of F and I. Better off dead. Better off dead. Too tired to cry. Too sick for why. How should I do it, though I never would? How could I do it? I feel I should. Better off dead. Better off dead. Unlike lost pals, with gun and poison, a rope or blade, my preferred options. Whispers hoarse in befouling pall, I plot finales on shadowed wall. Better off dead. Better off dead. Pondering when, when will I die? I see the future, a very short ride. Just… frothy breath or ebbing tide? Curled into a ball on the bed. Better off… Cats interrupt, feed me, feed me. I protest with venum, leave me, leave me. They pounce and fall, swatting air, racing over, on a tear. I kick them off, suffer cries, wrankled hair, sullen stares. Curled into a ball on… Flashing talon slashes skin, pointed fang pierces vein. I thrash, convulse, hide in sheets, another stain, marking pain. Enough! I howl. Paws skitter, then a silence. Lifting odorous veil, I spot a casual licking, at the door, leading out. Saved by cats.
AJD is currently without work and is, usually, obnoxiously content — quite grateful for many undeserved mercies. Not all lights in the tunnel are worth pursuing. Talk first at 1-800-273-8255.