poem i liked (tw; suicide)

I make coffee. I pretend I’m in love with the idea of being alive. I make it a point not to stare at the knife sitting on the counter top by the table

(ineloquent-creature, 2021)

I wake up. Make my bed. Take my medications on time —  the proper dosage, I suppose. I am constrained by the possibility of things repeating again. The doctors telling me the weight of what I have done. The nurses trying to calm me down. The stretcher waiting for me by the hallway. My parents, on the other line, in another city, hearing of what happened while their child was away.

I go to the kitchen. Make my meal.   I make it a point not to feel how lonely I am while eating alone at a big table with no one beside me. I do the dishes. Take a bath, only to find out my shampoo and conditioner have both run out at the same time.

It’s a hot day. I wear my jacket anyway.   Nothing too thick, just enough to hide my arms. I fix my bag for school. I take out the exam paper with a red mark that was given the other day. I refuse to look at another reminder of what I have reduced to. I look for my pen.  I can’t seem to find it. I’ll just buy a new one before going to class.

I forgot to drop by the store. I turn to my friend and ask her for a spare. She gives me one — an advice, maybe, that I should get myself together. I know she’s right. But a lost pen is hard to find. What more when you lose yourself?

I go out with my friends. Take their laughs. Try to brush off the feeling that I am still so empty in a room of people.  I join the crowd. Someone makes a sarcastic comment. I make jokes about ending it all in retaliation. They all laugh, some with concern. They know I only said it out of jest, but that does not mean I am not capable of doing it.

I take walks outside. Cross the street. Perhaps without looking at both sides, just in case something actually hits me. One time, my best friend grabbed my hand, pulling me out of my reverie. I told her I just didn’t know how to cross the street in the big city without a stoplight. She nodded with worry. She didn’t say anything, but we both knew better than my lies.

I go home. I push the key in the knob as I hear my cat scratching the door on the other side. I feed my cat. I clean his litter. He purrs and leans on my lap. “I love you,” I say as I kiss his head. He meows back as if he understands. I pretend I am in love with the idea of being alive — atleast for my cat, who cannot live without me.