Difficult

Being well enough to know you can't kill yourself
is a difficult place.

Frustration to the extreme is easier;
to give life a pointed finger, to spit and hiss and say
finally, simply, "Fuck you, I'm done."

But knowing you won't go there,
won't sign that check, take that permanent vacation --
that's where the real pain waits.

No one warns you.
Doubtful they know what a trap the skull can be,
how full to the screaming seams
a spine can feel when it's sending only dark,
how huge a mass of cells can feel
when it's you, only you, against yourself.

Every syllable of "This will pass"
feels like a light flicking off
in a compound of rustling baggage
and every heartbeat is a gunshot
forcing blood through your brain,

reminding you no matter how afraid you are
or how much you want to go,
you know you'll keep breathing
because a difficult place is better than none.