Dreaming of My Suicide

Jung believed that everyone,
everything in your dreams
was just another representation of you.

That woman, that looked so much like your grandmother,
telling you everything was okay,
honey, that was just you.
and that building you can’t get out of,
the one with all the doors, and the rooms and the closet
that holds that albino man that has scared you since you were
a child,
again,
just you.

It is just the ID and the superego
battling it out on the narcissistic stage of night.

Which is fine,
except the other night,
I killed myself,
with a pencil thin razor
taken up my the tender fish belly white of my arm.

And other than seeing all that blood,
knowing it was mine,
knowing this was the undoing of a life,
with the pulse tapping down
to an unsteady wobbly thump
like a drunk taking his first steps to the bathroom,
like a drummer falling out of step,
a staircase unraveling,
I remember only one other feeling,
which is that I didn’t really want to do it.

But I didn’t have a choice. Or so someone told me.
I’m not sure what Jung would think of that.

I just know that in that nightmare space,
my loneliness was a crow on my shoulder
and she was unshakeable.
And I haven’t felt that sick
in awhile.