As far as I’m concerned, a suicide hotline and a psychic hotline
are the same thing. Both predict the date of the caller’s death
while sugarcoating it as an open heart, a caring listener
on the other end of the line.
At my father’s wedding last summer the bride held herself
like a forest fire, the kind that burns all the other trees down
before vanishing into its own pile of ashes like a wilting phoenix.
But I’ve read psychology textbooks about defense mechanisms,
and self-immolation wasn’t listed in any of the pages.
I used to believe that repression existed
until the news of Kurt Cobain’s death broke,
and I still catch my father weeping over it years later.
I am difficult to handle because no shade of blue in the universe
can ever quite match my hue of sadness.
Love me like the closest version of that blue on the color wheel
you can find, and we’ll be set for ages.
Or better yet, be my suicide hotline so I can memorize
your number instead: Whenever I want to kill myself,
put parentheses around the word want. Inform me that want
is not the same thing as will.
Tell me to call back again sometime.