mentally ill abroad.

hopeless.
without help, on any side-
i don't speak the (language).
I called my friend,
who called my husband.

i called from a dark room,
from my bed.
I haven't moved in nine days.
I called using one finger.
The only body part
with the ENERGY to MOVE.

I cried for help,
quietly,
before I locked myself alone.
With the blinds shut.
(before the razorblades)
(before the pills)

I called my friend,
who called my husband,
who told me I was fine.

underneath it all

somewhere,
there is a bone deep convictuion
that i am not good enough.

genesis,
beginning.
matters but doesn't matter,
because it surrounds me every day.
the images.
the songs.
the glances.
small adjustments to clothing,
always with a defensive air.
the defense -
i deserve to exist.

there are always two voices in my head.
one insisting i should hide,
i should die,
i shouldn't force my own company.
the other insisting,
ridiculous.

i'm so tired of the argument.
when will the fighting stop?