“Wanting to die, is not the same as wanting to come home.”
– Blythe Baird
I wish every time I felt like killing myself, a flower
bloomed through the top of my skull. I would pick
them from my scalp and hand them to the people
I love. Here I would say, hoping they’d know
to place them in a jar on my windowsill,
make them purposeful.
Wanting to die feels a lot like wanting to put sweatpants
on when you’re dressed in business casual, only
you don’t own any sweatpants. Or –
forever winter, uninterrupted overcast.
Petals would float to my floor
as if to say I too have wished to be blown off
– there now,
roots snugged in soil.