by Lydia WeinbergerContent warning: mentions of suicide I think being suicidal has made me more pro choice, In that I have actively chosen my own life everyday, Know that there is sweet relief out there but that that is not my choice So I treat myself with the tenderness of a mother to an unwanted fetus that persisted till personhood. I know now that there is no death, Just something, then nothing, Because a suicidal person can still fear death; We are seduced by the promise of a deep slumber, And what is an aborted fetus than nothing to nothing? Mass of cells at peace not because of death but because they were never more than mass of cells, Death is not an active phase to only be experienced by the living. And who are the living? Is it my beating heart that ties me to that group? My ability to sense pain? Is that my personhood keeping the blade from my wrist or Is it the sweet smell of spring flowers Clinging to my mucus membrane, The warm embrace of my boyfriend's shirt And the buzz of coffee too late at night, Or the image of my parents mourning me? Is that what keeps me here? Am I kept here just by passiveness? Is it still a passive choice to keep existing if I think about dying everyday? Is it still a passive choice to stay pregnant? To not get an abortion? Do we actively or passively ascribe emotions to stuffed animals? To things humans made and humans can destroy and their atoms would be none the wiser?
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by Lydia Weinberger“Mirror, Mirror” Face me, face me, face me, Your faded metallic horror, soiled By spit like the envelope between your legs, Like the stamp shoved down your throat, So greasy and shiny and frigid-- My shards of ice turn red before I can cut you. You glare your light and teeth at me, Turn and tuck my stare away So you cannot see the one you hate. |
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