Writings for Winter: will you still love me when i'm suicidal?
The first time I stood at the edge of a building
with the intent to jump off, he threw a blood orange
over the edge and forced me to watch it explode
into colorful pulpy innards on the pavement below,
until I no longer felt the desire to hear my own heart
make the same dull splat. See, after we went
skinny-dipping in Oklahoma two weeks later,
I put a stethoscope over my heart and tried
to translate every beat, but it turns out
that some languages are just undecipherable.
That very same day he took all my razors
and buried them in the loaf of raisin bread
that sat in the very back of the freezer,
because he knew I hated raisins
and it was three months old anyway. When
I think about the bathtub more as an ocean
to drown in than a washing implement, he
takes me out to do silly things like piss
in the neighbors’ flowerbeds or buy 25 angel cakes
from the local supermarket; once we even
watered our lawn with coffee instead.
If it makes you feel better, he says, then do it.
Tonight, when I turn out the lights,
I kiss him like a talisman.
Instead of pulling my shirt over my head
like he normally does, he hands me
a flower. He makes me tear off each petal,
one by one, but instead of repeating
He loves me, he loves me not, he makes me say
I will not kill myself, I will not kill myself
over and over again for every petal,
until all that’s left
is a stem as thin as the lifelines in my left wrist.
The horn of the drummer from the band Les Derniers Trouvères, a great medieval band.