Just Go

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

it's a poetic-type essay that takes it's readers on a journey towards reaching a point of taking control and not giving up.

Submitted: August 31, 2018

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Submitted: August 31, 2018



Why are you here? I didn’t send for you, yet you came. I’m sure no one sends for you. You’re unpleasant and tiring. Ain’t a damn thing about you that’s inspiring.

“Oh, so tell me how you really feel.”

It's easier to pretend like everything's okay. To say nothing's wrong and never mean a word I say. To look you in the eyes and lie right to your face. Yeah, it would be easier that way. It's easier to smile if it makes someone else's day, even when mine is a repeat of yesterday. I Laugh to keep the tears from streaming down my face, but hey no one is there to wipe them anyway because "you have my support" is just something people frequently say. Just like the time that I told you everything was okay. Sometimes a lie is easier to say than the truth. That's the easiest way to make people stay, right?

 It felt like I was floating and the weight of it all made me drown. Maybe that's why you can't see me or choose not to. Maybe I'm living as a fragmented memory or wish I could be. Learning to accept the apologies that I'll never get; something as easy as taking back the words I never meant, the time I spent. I’m so over the stupid, adolescent bullshit. Like nah real shit, when are people going to get over the nonsense and admit that depression and suicide really exists?

“Trust me they know I exist, they’re just in denial of me; the same as you.”

When will we be able to tell our families and not have to “just get over it,” like our problems are irrelevant. I just want to be happy like you. Don’t you want happiness for me too?

“I make your happiness, you need me. I’m written all over your face.”

You see, most people don’t think that depression has a face, but it does. It wears the face of each and every individual it consumes. Its excessive and abusive. They say think of life as a semicolon, but what they neglect to tell you is that a sentence comes after you and once that period hits that line the sentence is over. We’re reaching the end of the sentence, the last paragraph, at the end of the last story she will ever allow me to tell. The words that hummed within her vocal cords and resonated from her lips were this:

Where there is something it will always remain

So even if I went back in time I couldn’t change shit anyways

It’ll still happen, just in a different way

So it’s just me and my thoughts contemplating suicide

For lack of a better term self-mutilation

I learned that hurt people hurt people and I'm out here committing homicide

Free ranged genocide

Leaving my woosahs at the door

Picking up a drink oh please pour me a little more

Cause Every time I put the knife down you put the gun in my hand

And I just put it to my head

Cause I just don't understand

My wrist has turned into a notepad

I write with the sharpest pen

I've become an artist

Does it take for the painting to become an after death exhibit for you to see?

Or would I cost too much for your attention?

When by you my death came free

But somehow I still paid a toll

Love and affection, well lack thereof was the fee

And this game of let’s play pretend is intriguingly boring

Every day I put on a smile that I have to pretend isn't slowly fading away

Floating over my head is a cloud of grey

And with every lightning strike I feel like I've lost my way

But they tell me to hold on because troubles don't last always


It’ll fix all your problems


It’ll make the pain go away

Since I started praying that shit came to stay, and all the people I thought I had, they went away


“Haha, but you didn’t die, so you’ll be okay. So dramatic.”

You’re wrong, I die a little every day. When it’s the little things that seem to cause more pain than the big ones. When I’ve become lazy against my will. When getting up takes more than hitting snooze twice and going to sleep takes a blunt and a bottle. When I’m crying and don’t have anyone to call or losing my shit and feeling like I don’t have anyone at all.

“Hmm, what happened to your friends and the folks that said they were down? It wasn’t me so it had to be you.”

They wanted the friendship that I could offer but not me around. Their mouths were writing checks that their actions couldn’t cash. Words dolled up and sprayed with perfume but still filled with trash. They left me out on a limb and it broke, just like my trust.

“Complain, complain, complain. I mean, but didn’t your mom give you the lessons of life? You should have paused on your complaining and listened.”

SHUT UP! Yeah, mama said there'll be days like this, days when I want to call it quits. Days when I tell myself that enough is enough. Having talks with God trying to call the devil on his bluffs. He sits on my left and points out every time I mess up. I’m drinking just to numb the ill tended to pain. Trying to calm my thoughts, I can't sleep so I weep in the silence, but mama never said there'll be days like this. Those days where crying in the shower blocks the sound of sniffles and whines. Days where there's no recollection of what day or what time. Days when nothing matters at all. Days where I'm begging God to take it all or I will. Praying that he does so I won't. My wrists become tally marked with anger, stained, dripping hope.

She neglected to mention days like this. Where life is no longer relevant and I'm drinking for the hell of it. Days where “hang in there” are just words on the other end of the phone. Days where staying inside seem the most logical. I don't recall her mentioning when no is no longer valid. Spoken with conviction yet still empty. The days we wish we remembered over the days we long to forget.

Yeah, mama’s never said shit about that because you gotta live and learn and sometimes you gotta let them bridges burn. Learn to leave those STILL friends alone and figure some shit out on your own. Take the time to find out that you can be surrounded by people yet still feel alone.

But this isn’t about me and her, you tried to flip the script, It’s about me and you. How you keep showing up in my life when I didn’t ask you to and every time I ask you to leave you turn around like I’m not talking to you. YO, I’M TALKING TO YOU!You may as well hop in the back seat cause I’m driving from now on. I’m still in my skin and I’m not jumping out because there’s no room for you to jump in and when I pull up to your stop you better tuck and roll because this is my life and my story and I decide how it goes.


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