A Poem About Help

Sometimes I don't know how to reach for help. You see, there are sources.

I could call the hotline, but it's so superficial.

I could call my psychiatrist but she is not in the clinic.

I could call my psychologist but he is with his family.

I could call a hospital, but they would hold me and make me wait 8 hours for a doctor.

I could ask my aunt for another pill, but I already took too many.

I could call my father, but he'd say he's busy with work.

I could call my mother, but I'd hear a harsh response.

I could cry, but I've been unable to.

I could trigger myself to cry, but that would mean I'll never stop crying.

And when I can't stop crying, it means the pain reached its limits.

It means I'm too broken to even move.

To speak.

To say anything to anyone.

Because I don't talk about this with my friends.

I scare people.

This sickness scares people away.

And all I can do is cry to sleep.

"Take this pain out of me", I pray.

It's funny, though.

To God, I know what to say.

Everyone else? They don't care anyway.