Poem: Suicidal Ideation

(Disclaimer: This is absolutely NOT a cry for help or a suicide letter. See the preamble I have artfully shifted to the end if you don’t believe me and want a reassuring, long-winded explanation.)

I have given tendency to the analysis
and qualification of my many neuroses
and outdated terminologies.
The focus of this mental meandering
found itself footed by the monument
to my suicidal ideation

There are many things from which I suffer,
most of them rooted in my Borderline Mother
From her this may stem
Though, if I’m honest,
I know they were a problem for my father
for whom I am oddly named

Now to say I suffer is a rather inaccurate portrayal
Yes, for many it might seem traumatic
But I’m rather atypical in my expression as it is
So to say that I suffer
is to say then that I live with
and draw from the fount
of the corpse-filled river
I litter it daily with torrents of my own effluents

Like some think of fucking
I am endlessly cutting
blood sucking from the upward-directed,
self-inflicted scalpel wounds
I decadently and artfully carve
in the gaps between my tendons
I have seen through the windows made with my radius and ulna
I’ve danced the Mamushka with my brother, the toaster

I’ve hung and cracked my neck, or better yet
dangled for up to five minutes
as the blood pooled and pulsed in my face
the engorged tongue swelling unending in my carping mouth

And I’ve certainly fantasized
about shooting myself between the eyes
with an ever-changing range of projectiles
And if I am being honest
I’d rather be more thorough
and shoot up through the palate
angled down back to take a whack at that brain stem
ensuring certain dismantling of my person

And, oh, have I wasted hours in staring contests
with large bottles and jacks-of-all-death threats
I’ve given computations to the efficacy-versus-agony
of train-based jumping
but I think it’s selfish to inconvenience the commuters
and the investigators
and the poor fucker who hits me
not to mention the clean up
y’know? it’s too much
I feel bad about the mess I’d leave
or my fiancé discovering me
So, I am shamed to say
I carved up my face up the other day
after half a bottle of something stiff
because my nervous twitch
needs steadying

When the winters coming and the cold starts to choke
the amber of November street lights starts to collect
a flurry of pale moths that coalesce, crystalline
I find myself wandering out
driving north until I find
the perfect spot, a bottle of something warm
to help me slip out of this itching skin

I stare out onto the lake
frozen over and out of sync
with my heart that’s still flowing
rather than existing
and I do my best to still myself
reflecting the moon light back
and the trees and I have a laugh
as the drifts bank and swallow our trunks

I sit there a while until
the abyssal euphoria of the moment finds me
and sometimes, I find myself staring back
at the asterisk of an anus
my cat greets me with
her feline way of reminding me
that I am full of shit.

and though I know she’s right
I cannot help but find myself
engaging in this behavior
and grounds I used to run in desperation
I now roam gladly in placid meditation

Like the screaming of the skull that many have kept
I remind myself daily
that there is no such thing as tomorrow
And as many times as I’ve died at my own hand
I know that it will more than likely be
some incidence of Pure life

So, what, I query to no one in particular,
would be the point in skipping to the end
It’s coming for me even now
and it may take 40 years or a day

But it’s unlikely,
to be pointed,
that I will have a say

And besides,
I’m curious to see
just how life
decides to take me


I want to give a little intimate preamble* to this poem as I think it needs it. Don’t want any “Do you need help” shit down the road. I had a rough upbringing and as a result was very depressed and anxious very early on. There came a time when I needed help, I got it and I’m good now. That’s why I’m here. I did walk away with figurative and literal scars but I did walk away. It did however change me and who I would have been without them is an unknown-unknown. It is good/bad/neutral, whatever it could have been is irrelevant. I’m more compassionate for it, I’m more patient because of it, and I have one hell of a cunt of an anxiety disorder but it forces me to be critical which isn’t a bad thing. But something I’ve grown rather fond of, one of the things I know as a positive, is my suicidal ideation. I have long let go of any willingness or wanting to act upon suicidal thoughts. I’m a really-happy-most-of-the-time, living, breathing human again. If you see me walking most of the time I have this really stupid gomer-y grin on my face. If I let my mind wander though I end up in my own forest of the dead; a memory warehouse of castaway incarnations. Sometimes. I also think about graffiti and philosophy, shit I read in the news and adult cartoons. I keep a mental jukebox of several songs on a loop and other such cognitive frivolity too. So, to make a short story long I started making a joke out of it. Calling myself out for it. It’s become a game rather than a painful preoccupation. I have come to a place of acceptance with myself as I am. I approach things with a cautiously optimistic hope for a future with less of, but a realistically not none. Every experience changes us and we can’t erase some of these marks. It’s alright. It doesn’t own me anymore, it’s just where I go when I’m idle, sometimes. I am a bit masochistic anyway, so it’s fine. Really!

*I wrote this above the piece and decided no one was going to read the poem and then this. I didn’t want to leave this shit unsaid for the possible future hypothetical concerned citizen so I am calling it a fucking preamble and you can just eat it.


About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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