this is a prose that I’ve been writing for a few weeks, and I was largely inspired by a poem that’s been on my radar for a couple years. A brilliant piece written by Akeemjamal Rollins for Button Poetry, which you can check out here. I’ve wanted to do a version of this for a long time, and what finally put the wheels in motion was a song by a group called Nicotine’s Famous Honey, which you can check out here.
Before I continue, I want to hugely stress that this is a poem about mental health, and suggests some content that could be triggering to others. I certainly hope that it inspires positivity rather than anything else, and with this post I also feel the need to say (if it wasn’t already suggested) I am 100% here for anyone that needs to talk, genuinely. Anything that I can do to help someone from a mental health perspective, I’m in. No need for second guessing, no need to wonder if you can reach out… I’m here. Period.
That being said, heres my most recent piece of writing.
If I died tomorrow,
I guess it’d be okay.
I’d be more hyped than heartbroken, but scorned because I’ve still got a few things I’d have wanted to say
Tell my cat I’m sorry, that I tried to hold off for him
Tell my mom that I know she knows everything I’d have to say but, fuck, I love her anyways
Tell my dad I’m sorry we only knew each other a year. Tell my dad I hope he still keeps buying beer, on Fridays.
Tell the good earth girls I was too shy to ask their names but that they are the providers of life itself
Tell Rachelle she was the reason I stuck around so long and don’t let anyone else tell her any different
Tell the scene, if it helps them sleep at night they can use my face when they picture the devil
Tell the Cipralex, that I fold
Tell my tickets and my debts that I win, motherfuckers
Tell Dr. Turner he should have changed the meds but I don’t blame him for that old lady that died
Tell my old friends I bet you I was drunk, you guessed it
Tell my new friends it was a self fulfilling prophecy
Tell Bonavista that it was the only place I ever called home
Tell downtown that it was my lungs
Tell Killarney, thanks for the beats
Tell Chestermere, thanks for waiting
Tell my exes I moved to Texas and it wasn’t because of them.
Tell Chris to put on his best tux,
Tell Chris I’m coming home, my darling
Tell Chris— never mind, I’ll be telling him myself
Tell the world that it really had its moments, that I loved the landscapes so lengthy, I loved the sidewalks so sacredly and that the sight through a viewfinder is one of the only things that kept me sane.
Tell the flowers, thanks for covering up the holes
Tell the profs, to take my brain and give it a purpose, teach whoever you can that mental health issues are not a swing in a mood, are not a phase of life, are not an apple a day take away, the stigma. Take whatever you need of me. Whatever is left of me.
Take the music on my Spotify and play it on a loop on the corner of 11th and 15th, I never made any for myself, it was all for you. Take my kimonos and hang them on lamp posts, they deserve to be seen more than I allowed them to. Do whatever you wish with my photos, those were mostly for me to remember when I wanted to forget everything else.
Tell everyone, to remember me. But only slightly. Only when they need to. Do not dwell on who I am, or who I was, because believe me when I say I. Am. Chillin.
And I’ll be seein’ you soon.