arms stretched toward the sky,
screaming incoherently, the
long awaited cry for help.
So show me what you got.
A cyber hug?
A few platitudes, or
maybe a few bumper sticker talking points?
Reassure me it will get better.
Though I know the truth doesn't live there.
I've been on this hill going downwards
For years and years.
And there is nothing politically correct
that is going to make me any better..
I am not a precious flower.
I am a crass, ass kicking bitch.
And I don't need to be told it will be okay tomorrow
when I know damn well it won't.
And now I know that you just lied to me.
How does that make me better?
This may come as a shock and surprise,
but I get no therapeutic aid in watching
you perpetually promote yourself.
And then there's you,
the one who got all of the info out off me,
then ditched me when you found out
how sick I really was, I want to thank you,
for not pretending, for having the courage
to run away from me at word one.
More people should just show what cowards they are.
It would save us mad people a whole lot of time.
This is my cry for help, and it is messy.
I've given up on suicide.
No matter what I do, I just can't get that ambitious.
Now I'm thinking catatonia -
just shutting down.
A few things stop me.
If I could just power off when I'm not
dealing with one of those people,
yeah, that would be good.
“I don't think she's quite right.”
“Hush, Margaret, she can hear you!”