Charlie

We’re in the emergency room.

            Mom walked in while I was trying to clean up the blood.                   I just wanted to let it

fall.

I wanted to see the crimson color

flow gently down my thigh. I wanted

to fade into a daze and dream of

peace. I wanted to die.                                                When I initially cut myself, it wasn’t a suicide attempt.

                                                But, of course, that’s how mom took it.

She started screaming and crying – hysterics.

It made me want to punch her.

If I would have had the energy,

I would’ve gotten up off the floor,

pushed mom out, slammed the door

shut in her face. Silence her. But, I

didn’t.

My energy was draining the same as the

color from my face, the liquid from my body.

Now it seems that mom’s color was fading as well.

She scooped me up

and we left. Now she’s

cold. Now that I’m okay,

she seems totally uninterested

in my current state.

In fact, she seems like she could care less.

She seems pissed.

What I don’t understand is how she can go from caring

to not giving a shit in point three seconds.

Seriously.

Either way, she’s trying

to talk the ER doctor into

sending me to a facility – a mental

hospital. She says that I need more

help than what she can give me.

I don’t know that that’s true.

I was only using the blade as a

coping skill, not a murder weapon.

I’m giving up.

They’re talking to me like I’m five.

Here comes Tri-County Crisis.

Here comes placement.

And I’m supposed to find sanity there? Right.