talk to me by Anonymous (16, Virginia)*

[Content warning: suicide ideation]

talk to me,
he says. the stars have
shifted to form his soul,
this purest essence imbued within
bated bubbles that read typing . . .

typing . . .

---

(i am a black hole.
i am imploding at my heart
and my intestines feel all twisted,
like my body is eating away
at my strength as my mind erodes at my hope and the ocean tides wear at cliffs. i read somewhere that black holes have a sunken center, and i find autonomy within this disembodiment—do you feel kinship with the galaxy, have you ever dreamt about going still and turning to stone and returning to the stars?)​ ​

but i do not say any of that. i cannot.
 he is much too impressive. 
and he could not possibly understand. we do not inhale stardust from the same lips. he could not possibly know. 

i am typing . . .

okay, i say. perfect, succinct.
about what?

he is typing . . .

i’m very concerned about you.
what do you want to talk about?

the words rise like a crescent tide,
(i want to talk about dying—i want to describe the cries that ring in my ears alongside the cheery christmas radio jingles that leech off men’s gray matter—have you realized that those constant bell chimes sound like death knells, have you wondered about how easily those carolers could don all-black and chant for a freed soul? i want to talk about a possibility different than strangulation of the future, that ozone smoke that will choke us to death—the possibility that we might tarnish our bodies first and be left dangling in midair. i want to talk about the words that spill around my ears and slip down the drain of my throat, forcing themselves out of eyes squeezed under blankets at night. i want to know if you have learned how to quiet your mind. i want to know if you can stargaze without hearing the mockeries of heaven.)
but i do not say any of that.
the chaos is too much for me
and surely for him,
and floods my thoughts all at once.

i am typing . . .

i don’t know. i don’t have
anything to say.​

he answers quickly. the
little astral typing bubble does
not pop up.

that’s a lie.
i know you well.

i pause.
he is mistaken.
(but do you know me like i
know life? have you, too, grown
weary of me and my shortened
phrases, hesitant prose, my failures 
in speech and text? my mind is drowning
and my lungs are shriveled with
saltwater; would you swallow this
deluge with me?)
but these chloroform words stick to my fingers and 
i do not respond.​

he is typing . . .

so. . .
talk to me.
tell me about your day.

well, i begin,
i woke up. i got out 
of bed and tried to 

(write? no, too personal. none of
my thoughts are fit to be written down. like a brief flashing of stars before they collapse for eternity—i, too, refuse to be constrained in perpetuity. i do not trust the world, with its plastic christmas smiles and blackened carbon lungs, to take care of my words once i am gone—which will be soon and of my own volition. 
i do not trust you.
i am imploding still and 
i do not trust you.)
he would not understand.

i tried to sleep for longer, i say,
but couldn’t. so i made tea. 
then i looked outside
the window and watched the sunrise. it was nice.

it was.

is that it?

i deleted instagram today.​

why is that?

christmas ads. everyone
was smiling, with their little red hats and presents. i didn’t understand
why. and then i scrolled down and saw an infographic about the climate. it was performative but still had less likes than the christmas picture.

so i turned off my phone
and went to the kitchen to make more tea, but found that i still had some left from earlier. and the sun was still rising, which was still nice, 
but i didn’t feel much better.

too much.
but it feels nice now 
that i’ve started to speak,
tentative hints of seawater coughed
up between pursed lips.

do you feel okay now?

i can’t tell if he really cares.
but we are made from the same
materials, are we not? formed from
the last vestiges of stars?

not really.
but it’s nice that you 
talk to me anyway.
and the sunrise was nice too.

even if i would never show
him my mind, much less
the world.

today is going well, then?

kind of.
i do not say
(no, my body feels empty.
and the tea burns my tongue
but my skin still feels so cold.)
those murmurs gather in my fingertips
and disperse before they 
reach the screen.

but somehow he understands,
                with his round moon heart.

oh.

he is typing . . .

i know there’s more
that you are thinking.
but it’s okay if you don’t
trust me right now. but
i am here. and
i want you to be alive
so we can be here
together.

last year someone
he knew returned to the sky.

and it is okay if you don’t
want to live right now.

just surviving is okay.
you will survive.

and maybe one day
you can write about this--
when you feel better about
it all. and you won’t
have to hold in all of those
thoughts for yourself.

i am typing. . .

i stop, and look outside of the window
again; i watch the tide crash against
oceanside cliffs basking in the sun. i do
not know what is right to say.

i exhale, and watch a sliver
of my soul populate the winter earth,
one more sliver than before.

tomorrow is christmas.
perhaps tomorrow i will be gifted with
acid words that bound up my intestines
and pierce the back of my polluted
throat like the sharp blinking of stars.

perhaps tomorrow i will die.

but perhaps tomorrow, i will
watch the sunrise and drink
warm tea. perhaps i will try to
direct a few more thoughts
away from my black hole mind
and fail for a few less,
just as the moon directs the tide.

perhaps.​