There Was A Little Girl

There was a little girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she good

She was very very good

But when she was bad…

That would have been me, then,

Horrid.

When she was bad she was horrid.

That was what mom called “my poem.”

I suppose it’s true. When I’m bad, like today, I went to a scary place.

I contemplated suicide.

I envied the dead.

But I talked, sang, wept and tapped my way away from the ledge.

I called for help. I sang curses with a guttural flare when I was alone in the car.

I tapped out my suicidal ideation: tap the hand, the eyebrow point, the temples, under the nose, under the lips, collar bone and 7th rib.

Tap tap tap as the words poured out: even though I feel like slicing my wrist and letting the chaos fall silent, even though I feel like I want to die, I accept myself. Even though I don’t feel like I deserve the air I breathe, I accept the mess I am as I am right now. I accept (tap tap tap) all these feelings and let them go. Tap tap tap.

I was shaking uncontrollably.

The last time I shook like that was when I went into septic shock while waiting to be seen in an emergency room.

But when the shaking stopped I was in a different head space.

I made dinner.

I played my guitar.

I checked Facebook.

Now I’m here.

Tap tap tap.

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