Carla Capone: Uncomfortable

“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

this Earth

– there now,

roots snugged in soil.