By Juliana Lillehei
If I called the Suicide Hotline right now, this is what I would tell them.
I would tell them, Hey, Suicide Hotline. This is Anonymous.
They’d say, Hey, Anonymous, this is the Suicide Hotline.
I’d say, Yes, I know, and they’d say What can we help you with today?
Well, Suicide Hotline, I’d say, I could do with a little suicide right now.
Okay, Suicide Hotline would say. They sell Swiss Army knives at most hardware stores. Make sure you slit vertically.
Hold on a second, I’d say. Suicide Hotline, aren’t you supposed to talk me out of it?
Suicide Hotline would sound annoyed.
We are the Suicide Hotline, Suicide Hotline would say. You called us to talk about suicide, and we are here to help you.
Suicide Hotline is an underpaid blue-collar worker.
Yes, I would tell Suicide Hotline, so aren’t you going to help me?
If you don’t want to purchase a knife, Suicide Hotline would sigh, drink every household cleaner you kind find. As fast as you can.
You’re supposed to talk me out of it, I’d insist.
You want the Suicide Hotline to talk you out of suicide? And Suicide Hotline would laugh. Would you also like us to convert your oxygen into carbon dioxide for you?
What? Suicide Hotline would not be making any sense.
There are some things, Suicide Hotline would say, that you’ve got to do for yourself. Living is one of them.
And Suicide Hotline would hang up on me.
Bob Dylan Sensual Music
Rip and tear me
Bleed and scare me
I want you to knife me through
Bury me or save me
My primordial blood
Of bits and bits
Of father’s fits
Of mother’s nights
Of sickly fights
Of saving flights
I am a cut
that throbs against
It’s doom and gloom
We rush the room
Your breath suffocates
Sharp love resuscitates
I love it when you
Lean too far
Press too hard
Crack my hip bone
Make my eyes sweat
Make my eyes moan
My careless blood
Should surge in flood
Please bury me or save me.