The thing about mental health is that you don't wake up one day "all better." You don't wake up one day and never feel like you want to die again. You don't wake up one day and realize you're never going to have a panic attack again. It doesn't work like that.

But, after being on such a high for so many weeks, you might think you are truly "all better." And then life will hit you in the face and you'll remember, this is an ongoing battle. Some days you're winning, some days you're losing, but you're still fighting it every single day.

This is a poem about coming to that realization.

Dying in an Airport

The day I finally admitted

that I wasn’t “all better”

was the day I walked through an airport

alone

thinking “I want to kill myself”

over and over.

See, I don’t really want to kill myself.

But sometimes I get these thoughts

and no matter how hard I try

I can’t shake them from my brain.

Maybe one day I will tattoo every

mean word

every snide comment

every triggering encounter

onto my skin—

because just like my tattoos,

the words sting and burn for days—

even weeks—

until they slowly fade out into a dull ache

until one day I forget they’re there—

that is, until I look down and see the ink

the subtle reminders marked on my skin

of what used to be there.

Sometimes, I’ll forget entirely

about the stinging tattoo of hurt

and pain

and embarrassment

etched onto my body—

but usually only when his lips

are covering them

forging a path through every scar—

every drop of ink—

my body has accumulated over the years

covering them,

brushing against them,

until I can’t see them.

But this only lasts for a moment—

his lips cannot possibly cover

my entire body

all at once.

I wish to god

or whoever else wants to listen

that being loved

could fix all my problems

but I’m still alone in that airport

thinking over and over

that I don’t deserve to live—

and I can’t seem to find my gate.