Too Long; Didn’t Read

i.

[in 87 words]
I’ve convinced myself a thousand times
that I am and am not worth saving—
the ten-pound dumbbell at the bottom of the deep end,
a metaphor for a drowned baby in lifeguard training.
At age nine, I am more bones than skin,
closer to infant myself than adult, cannot sink
low enough to even pretend to save someone other than myself.
“That’s okay,” my brother says after receiving his
metal babe, passing the class with everyone else,
“you could always fish it out with the pool skimmer.” 

to the fish bones at the bottom of the pool:
save a metaphor for everyone else 

save a baby,
drown a metaphor 

ii.

The psychiatrist who diagnosed me with depression
took notes with a fountain pen.
A few lines and a dip, a refuel of ink.
I was tempted to offer my wrist,
my arms a minefield of open wounds.
If he wanted to write in crimson, I would have let him,
would have called myself (a) well if he had asked. 

In a minefield of depression,
I arm myself with a pen,
open my wounds,
and write

iii.

I promise others that I’ll make space for myself,
but there might be too much space here,
I might have turned into the void
that I’m always screaming into. 

others might be too much,
I have turned to screaming