say you'll remember me

My sentences are trailing off, skipping down rabbit holes. I am trying to write something because I want to write more, but I keep losing my thoughts.

My thumb burns from holding the lighter wrong. Typical.

"Do you ever think about that girl who was obsessed with Hitler?" I text Bill.

Move. I tell my fingers.

What am I trying to say?

I am sad.

God, I just realized this is sounding like a suicide note.

It's not.

[Spoiler Alert]

But I am sad.

Heavy, sadness. I can't drop it because I haven't decided if the end justifies the means. I am tired of pills. I am tired of this routine.

Hopeless is the word I used in therapy.

But hopeless isn't enough. Despair draws closer, but maybe this is one of those things where there's a word for it in French or Italian that just doesn't translate.

I am sad. I am tired. I think about killing myself every single day.

Every day.

Many, many times.

Call this number. They say. Go here. But I can't. I can't every day. Every few hours. Life doesn't pause for your mental breakdown. These thoughts, they're like the boy who cried wolf. Even I am not sure when they are bluffing.

I broke the mental cord that tied cutting to death. A silver lining that can't quite hide the marks on my leg. It should scare me, how much I understand it, but it doesn't.

I am an addict. I am addicted to darkness.

Juvenile, I scoff at my fingers. Addicted to darkness? Is that a heavy metal band? Are you writing dramatic poetry? How old are you? 

I am too old. I told them that, the first time I sat in the psychiatric emergency room. I'm too old for this shit.

...

There is a baked potato sitting on a pan on top of my stove. It stares me down as I move through the kitchen, icing my throbbing thumb. It's cold now, its skin wrinkled and shrunken, my dinner. I pretend it isn't there. 

I just can't. I can't eat it.