This is My Cry for Help
I find myself slipping into an unrecognizable reality
And I think I’ve been here before
Sitting on the bathroom floor
Determining if my will to live is stronger than my will to die
But it’s not death I’m seeking
I think I would regret that finality
But I don’t know for sure
I’m torn between wanting to feel nothing & everything
My mood cycles without consent and medication slows but doesn’t prevent
If my doctor knew, I’d be scrutinized & labeled unstable
I want to feel
Not like this
Is my bubbly, friendly disposition a mask or is my current fugue state clouding my judgement
I wish I could ask
Anyone
Without fear of the repercussions that may follow
My silence is deafening upon my loved ones’ eardrums
But I wish they knew my silence was a cry for help
I’m not a silent being
Pictures reflect wild & wide toothy expressions adorned in vivacious ringlets
Those photographs are a testament to the person I am, was, or should be –
I’m not sure at this point
Why does everyone keep telling me who I should be
Why can’t they just leave me alone
I’m suffering in silence, but my body is screaming this is not me
I don’t know what I need –
So, stop asking me
I’ll get better I promise
Did that sound fake?
I’ll mean it tomorrow
I AM THE AMERICAN DREAM
Despite my 4’11 and 3/4 stature, I find myself shrinking to fit a fictitious narrative
How should I behave?
Meek?
Fragile?
Unintelligent?
Naïve?
How may I please you?
Yessir. No thank you. Please. Bless your heart!
Mind your elders.
Don’t talk back.
But what if that’s the issue
The fictitious narrative that weighs heavily on my shoulders stems from a deeply ingrained societal framework that women, specifically women of color, are servants.
We are presumed useless until bellies are grumbling and children are crying
I feel the anchor of societal norms as I provide inherent caretaking
I feel the twinge of loss at my empty womb
I will never bear children,
And the realization of that is worse than a sucker punch to the gut
It doubles you over with your arms wrapped tightly around your frame – leaves you breathless
I try to regain my composure, but society’s anchor pulls my corpse deeper into the abyss
I’m terrified.
It’s dark
And I can’t see more than 10 feet ahead of me.
Will this trek change my mind or is this fear mongering?
The following rhetoric rings through my auditory canals –
Fill the void with children
Suck it up – this is what you’re born to do.
But what if I don’t want to?
Tell me the real issue.
Why is society punishing me for being a nonconformist, yet the White House hosts a Jester?
It’s unjust to expect children to facilitate my spurious American dream
Rip open the American flag curtains – disrupt the delusion –
No one can afford the splendor of the white picket fence, 2.5 children, and happily married couple
Look At Me.
Me!
I am the American dream!
2 degrees, 1 in progress, steady job, no children to take care of, but somehow, I’ve become the antithesis
Of privilege that was never mine.
Alice Blackwell resides in hell, more formally known as Southern Indiana. She has poems published in Alien Buddha Press, Pure Sleaze Press, and Horror Sleaze Trash. She enjoys expressing herself through poetry and never shies away from a new ink pen, planner, or organization tool.