Not in the mood for tears, I zone
out in front of a plasma screen, browsing and flipping from channel to channel,
hoping changing images will sufficiently distract me.
Tid-bits of soap operas, glimpses of cartoons, fractions of commercials—
all fail to captivate. I start to cry
again as I stare at the blizzard outside. Why did I think
I could live with my choice? I’m much too weak.
Much too weak.

I could end it all now. No time would be better.
Mother and Father won’t be home ‘til morning.
I could be dead— long dead by then…
I could end it—But no! I mustn’t!
I must remember those lovely letters. The ones that described me
with a wonderful choice of words.
Worthy and Beautiful. Valuable too.
Curled up under covers, I read them again,
and over again
until suddenly all is faded to black
and without warning, I lose sight
of your cursive words of affirmation. I’m losing sight
of me.

I lift my hand in front of my face
And barely make out its silhouette. Not even a glow
creeps in the window. I frantically try
to flip on my lamp. Nothing happens. Nothing at all. My heart starts
to palpitate. I’m five again and I’m petrified. I’m not alone
in the dark. Someone or something
instigates the pressure
to end my life.
I’m not alone.






I tell myself I’m a priceless pearl.
That’s what you called me, not long ago
but tonight the truth is drowned by a sea
of insecurity and an ocean of regret.
The boy is wrong. You’re not a pearl.
You’re tarnished and worthless
damaged goods; used and abused.
The voice in the dark, not unfamiliar, has never been
quite so loud…
You’re half dead already. Complete the task.

I hug my knees, as I lose grip
on my will to live
and the strength to believe.
The longer I sit here, the more I’m devoured
by relentless darkness and brutal lies
until I’m convinced
nothing could be worse
than what I feel now. The voices coax me
deeper and deeper into the abyss
of ultimate self-destruction. The shadow of death
clouds my mind
and disables my reason. I know my sanity
(by the world’s definition) is slipping away.
But I’m not crazy.

Insanity is awareness
of a dark reality; an awareness
of the dark forces around us, taunting us,
speaking to us. I can feel the dark
possessing my frail, undead body, preparing to end me
once and for all. I nearly succumb
before being startled
by the glow of a small, vibrating object. It takes a minute
to get my bearings, after being lost—so lost
in the dark. My phone still vibrates, continues to illuminate,
valiantly unsealing my untimely fate.





Paralyzed with nerves, I’m afraid to answer
but a sense of urgency
befalls. Impulsively, I grab
my cellular phone
as if it will save me, some way, somehow.
On the other end,
I hear your voice.
On my end
the darkness flees.