They give you a list of names and numbers,

helpful organisations and people…

 

although

 

It’s hard to reach out with a knife in your hand,

spittle and blood on your face…

 

You can’t complete their generic forms, you can’t remember,

maybe show them a picture?

 

although

 

The picture inside your heads on repeat, on repeat,

and you cannot project anymore…

 

They give you diagnosis and dangerous drugs,

when you’re suicidal and broke…

 

although

 

You can’t get sober to open the box or push out the pill,

and your fingers are bayonets…

 

that cut your own flesh and claw your dead eyes,

but flesh heals and you’ve no need of sight…

 

although

 

It’s easier to live in the pain, than to fight with such hopelessness,

while you wonder again and again…

 

how the fuck did you get in this mess.