yellow
no,
i tell her,
extracting the words from her mouth,
carefully pulling knives up her throat
(because depression is some fucked-up magic),
spoon-feeding her my thoughts instead.
you matter.
you're worth it.
i need you here.
curled bones
against my aching body,
hair in my mouth—
i tell her to let it out.
i am fine,
i tell myself,
drawing her closer
for a temporary time.
for that moment,
we are safe.
after she leaves,
i stretch
and try to think of different colors,
one for each way i could do it.
purple- sleeping pills.
blue- water.
silver- blades.
red- bullets.
yellow- don't do it.
brown- rope.
yellow.
yellow, yellow, yellow.
i tie back the curtains
and let the warmth spread
over my cold fingers and toes.
i capture the sunshine
in a mason jar
and release it in my mind
so it leaks into the gray corners
and reminds me why i'm still here.
flashback:
you remind me of plath.
white- ledge.
pink- cough syrup.
yellow yellow yellow.
good thought:
i don't want to remind him of plath.
i want to write light.
i want to pen the sun.
(one day.)
the next day
she wants to die,
i am angry—
not because she wants to die—
but because she might go before i get the chance to.
sick thought:
i want to kill myself first.
i want to be the first to go.
and when he said i reminded him of sylvia, some piece of my heart smirked and said
good
because part of me has always wanted to be a tragedy,
and i would love to see the ripple reactions:
the gathering in the gym where even the drunks are sober,
grieving for a girl they never knew;
ghosts sobbing for a haunted soul,
closed casket at the showing, but some try to pry it open because that's all they can do—
out of my head.
i push it out of my head.
i stick to yellow for six days,
gold and amber and citron and flax and lemon and mustard.
organic.
van gogh would be proud.
on the seventh day,
i stumble
and drop my palettes
and when i try to pick them up,
they feel heavy.
black- a combination of my favorites.
sick thought:
i can make this beautiful
if i do it properly.
if i twist this enough,
i can convince them i'm doing what's best.
if i stretch this enough,
i can make myself a martyr.
(but who am i
to think my death could change the world?)
two days of yellow,
#ffe931 and #ffdc4e.
#000000.
#000000.
#000001.
slowly i rise.
sick thought:
i like being this way.
i don't want to get better.
sick thought:
i am best when i am sad,
and depression is my only original material.
are these thoughts driving me
or am i driving them away?
the steering wheel submits to
my ripped, raw fingertips.
all this control.
i am in control.
sick thought:
i should drive into the ditch right now
and crash into the telephone pole
but the sun in my eyes is yellow,
so i am staying for twenty-four hours.
#F9FA57.