is it suicide if it’s pretty?
the dramatic downfall, the artwork
i was 17 when i started taking antidepressants
“are you worth it, though?” she asked
but in the way that didn’t need speaking.
i think it was day six of forgotten showers, toothbrush, and comb,
when she realized i was choking on my own thought cud,
climbing onto my roof to stare into the gravel below
and reflect my body down to a bloody mural…
rocks ingrown to my skin, checkered pieces wishing they had moved a bit faster,
played a bit earlier.
then i started spitting out my food halfway down my throat
the gears would get stuck and i couldn’t move
my mind whirring down, powering off like an old 2008 macbook,
until it all stopped and life became tedious once again.
when i screw nails into my skin,
my turquoise veins become clouded with clots
and i’m not blue anymore.
i’d like to bark at the moon
and creep barefoot on the walls,
stalking my shadow and the woman i see trapped in the mirror,
her face dripping down her neck.
if i set off the smoke alarm, i could be the only one in the building dancing in sprinklers
and someone would have to get me, wouldn’t they?
move your bikes over to the other sidewalk, kids,
we’re trying to save a girl that can’t be saved.
maybe one day i’ll get funny enough to check myself in,
and i’d scream and claw just for fun,
so they have to wrap vines around my wrists
to call me safe.
that’d be a wednesday, wouldn’t it?
but this is all too tangled up in my head for me to speak out loud,
even two therapists can’t decode a girl who’s buried herself
so deeply hidden in gnarled weeds
read me, please.
By Siri Greene
Siri Greene (she/her) is a first year at Macalester College. She grew up in rainy Seattle and loves expressing herself through poetry and music. She writes poems as a way to heal, and often explores mental illness, sexual assault, and queer identity in her work.