Today is World Suicide Prevention Day.
Been low, so deep that you can’t see life? I’ve been there and come through it. Others don’t.
If you’re always depressed, get new habits. Only repetitive, positive actions will kidnap you back from your worst self.
Here’s a piece i wrote from a hole almost 2 decades ago… my posting it now must mean i’m alive and that bad times can be made history…
A REQUIEM FOR LOVE & SEX
For days i’ve sensed the arrival of this juncture but only realized the precise time a few minutes ago. Knew it as i climbed the last flight of stairs (ten steps in all – a countdown if i’d thought to count) and slid my guilty (stolen) key into the iron gate’s keep-me-out lock.
The rooftop is my quietude and i will miss such a faithful servant. Owing to a fat moon, all the sentinel shadows are in place. Glitters of stars ensure that i know which way to fall. The wind tugs at my clothing and not wanting to deny its desire, i unclothe and i’m given a flesh suit of goose bumps in return.
I walk like a sloth. Not because of doubt but as a result of wanting detail to adorn my final memories.
The concrete is cold and rough. My soles fill the gaps; no doubt granted red pin spots on their skin as evidence of passage. My toes are widespread. The air massages coolly between them. My ankles are stiff, my knees the same. No oil will help; nevertheless i grow no fear that my legs will be unable to walk me to my designation. My scrotum is tight. My penis hides so that i cannot see it through ginger, pubic hair unless i bend. I do not bend. My stomach sits coiled. It’s my cold and not my ulcer that makes it so. My hairy chest swells with air and pride. My nose is barricaded by snot and so it is my mouth that invites all the gases and ejects those that it does not like. My hair, blonde and dirty, waves from my head. There is slight regret that i’m not shaved, for in weather like this the sensation would have been likened to the pleasure of a stranger’s fingertips washing my hair, caressing my scalp. My eyes are widened with tingling wakefulness.
It’s a slight down slope to the thigh high wall. On this storm free night, it is i, and not rainwater, that is directed.
I have arrived.
The wall gives chair to my buttocks. My feet remain grounded.
The moment is not yet for I must dispossess that which i’m not allowed. I have a story to sacrifice. By all means, clog your ears with wax. It is not that i wish to move my salty lips and snaky tongue. As poet i’m bound by, and obligated to, darkness … and Death is patient with certainty.
Consequently, i address Love…