Death is real,

Though I’ve never known it be.

Rather, I’ve never been able to make it real.

 

To say I yearn for death wouldn’t be quite right.

My frontal lobe is buried under debris,

But the rest of my brain cannot find it in the pancake layers.

My frontal lobe is screaming,

Wiggling its fingers in the cracks,

But nobody is around to see it,

Which means it must make no sound.

 

Have you ever had that dream

Where you’re screaming,

But nothing comes out?

Remember how hollow your throat feels?

 

I want to get better, I do.

I want to be rescued from this collapse,

But I am running out of oxygen.

 

I cannot keep asking for help if nobody hears me.

I beg,

But the doctors do not believe I am sick enough.

I beg,

But my therapist is on maternity leave.

I beg,

But my friends do not have the tools to heal me.