If my mental health was a maths problem,
Perhaps I'd be an algebraic equation.
A jumble of numbers and letters
The letters that pour from my wrists and thighs
Late at night
Drip onto the tissue, then the page,
Then never looked at again.
The unsolved letters trying to spell a solution
But all anyone can find is failed persuasion
The equation:
D + 0 + NT
K + 1 + 2L
Yourself
Well I'm cured. I'm solved.
Or perhaps I'd be a graph
An odd shaped one so everyone laughs
Because my small cries for help and suicide scars
Are just so fucking relatable.
My depression would be an exponential graph.
It increases and increases and eventually
Gets to the point where it is entirely vertical,
Like those scars I mentioned on my wrist,
Then where can the graph go? It twists.
It turns back on itself and loses its balance
It spirals down again around and around
A rollercoaster that will eventually smash into the ground
The impossible question with no solution
The reason I'll fail that paper is a nuisance
Maybe I'd be the question
On Sine, Tan and Cosine
'Cause I'm screaming out here
This is a Sine
Shouting
"I'm not fine"
But sure, I'm cured.
Perhaps I'm the time-distance graph
In five years I've moved from chicken scratches,
To cuts, to exposing tissue and veins
I'm moving so fast I can see my grave
In five years I have become slave
To bruises and blood and razor blades
Maybe I'm a circle theorem question
Because I make no fucking sense
Rather than revising my time is spent
Staring at my pen and paper
With doodles of cuts and nooses
Cut me loose
I'm tired of this examination
This corrupt system of memorization
Where I stare at the sheet of paper
And months later
Compare everything to my mental health
Do not mistake this for a joke but a cry for help.
Sure I'm full of shit jokes and puns
But below cloth there are cuts
Scars blood gore galore
If I were a maths problem,
I'd be the end one ignored.
17/11/2017
C.J.
