I need help. I pick
at the dried, dark red
on my arm and I realize
it's from blueberries,
not blood, and I'm flooded
with realization, alarm, it
could easily have been
from self-harm not the
little pancakes I made
this morning, stakes
are high in this household
I might die but tenfold
more likely  I'll cry
as I make more
blueberry pancakes.
I need help.
My back aches on
the side that I grip her
tender body, my hip hiked,
my drink spiked, liken
me to moss on a tree I'm
pretty from a distance but
messy when touched and
probably just invasive,
pervasive is this thought that
I'm fraught with broken
pieces, spoken leases on my
affection, but I'm an infection
to be eradicated, erased,
replaced with a plastic
version of me that sees
only what needs to be done
and miraculously does so,
how though? I've never
learned the trick to
accomplishment, stick
around long enough and
my impoverished mindset
and slobbish nature will
bore you, too, tore down
among me are all the
trees I've rotted to the core,
but not more so than
myself. I need new seeds,
new roots, new leaves,
leave me now and imagine
me beautiful and strong,
wrongly assume I'll
heal and grow, show up
with the best intentions
and follow them through, too,
but I won't. I'm too
******* tired, I can't, I yelp.
Cast me into the fire,
reborn scant, I need help.

please forgive me, though
I don't know what I did, I'll
scour my brain and memories
for evidence of treacheries

I'll leave black and blue
marks, sifting through my
fingers at the words I've been
typing and withholding,

behold my repentance, I
will make a show of
what it is I do not know but
fully believe I did, please accept

my bid for attention again
as you once would, should
you go before my dance,
glance back as you leave,

at least, your beast wanted
to tangle with mine so
give it that little scrap
of meat, as we cannot

wrinkles. crease lines
that deepen then disappear
as I open and shut my
fists to fingers and back again,
ripped cuticles, hangnails,
dried blood, dirt lines
shove them in my mouth,
I taste the grime of my day
and remember that I did
a single ******* thing, and
if it weren't for this bitter taste
I'd forget I'm living, so
I beg the question-- can
I swallow both of my hands
and realize I'm worthy
of being alive? Will
the feel of my years of
survival and trials
be sweet on my tongue?
If I shove my whole arm
down my throat will
I ingest all the lifting and
lowering of my daughter
I've done, and see the
softness with which
I embrace her and all
other tender creatures
besides myself?

let me out, please
stop, I want off this
ride, hop an exit early,

and hide, surely that's
not too uncommon for
a mom and her depression
no recess in the home
of a parent with stress

and no where to go, roam
free my mind but my
body must stay here and
fear absorbs my joy like

a sponge, rob me of
life's little moments I
hear about, ***** grout,
tears and shout and
clean while she sleeps
and veg out, deep

in the bowels of my
mind I find the desire
to be let off this ride
no one to confide in

that I am beside myself
with rage, no pride,
pages get stagnant
unturned, unread, unsaid

let me off, scoff
at my selfishness,
I know I do,
but here I am
and I'm begging you.

the shame of having--
a lighter load to bear than
discomfort of lack