September 15, 9:15am
Patient is pulled from the lobby, after just three deflating
minutes overhearing the front desk at the family clinic,
Patient is shepherded through the hall of the drained aquarium.
Patient says thank you for the hope you must carry.
Patient throws a dirty look at the sharp-shooting scale.
Patient wrings his hands like rags left too long in the sink.
Patient learns that the doctor is running behind, that some patients
are more difficult than others.
Patient says it's good to get some answers.
Patient's legs are wrapped around each other like Jack's beanstalk.
Patient plays patty-cake to keep from shaking.
Patient wishes he hadn't sprung for the second cup.
When asked about sexual activity, he asks what counts.
Patient fills out the form as accurately as he can.
Doctor enters and reads the history of this stranger,
Stranger patiently waits for him to catch up.
Doctor says, explain this part.
Patient senses his own blood in the water.
Patient articulates the guilt of wanting to die,
tension between a life of ease and the dark patches of days,
Patient remarks that you cannot see darkness if it arrives without approaching,
wonders when it all got so heavy, and useless, and lean,
his voice dropping when recalling how bad it could get,
when the days would sink unfathomably deep,
when extra-creative thoughts grew appendages to carry out their mission and crossed the boundary into nearly real end-of-it-all planning,
when the only thing holding it back was the logistical nightmare of how to make it look like an accident, as if that would smooth the shock of going,
when by 3pm life was only botched pixels and the porcelain holding cell,
Patient admits to being no good at asking for help, finds struggling alone to be a certain kind of irresistible, but when he could no longer resist wanting to die, he turned to his best friend and cried,
confessing he could never really hate himself, but that loving himself makes it worse,
Patient doesn't drink anymore after that night, for fear of waking the slumbering architect of his death,
as of last week doesn't smoke any more cigarettes, and knows his chemicals cannot possibly keep up,
smokes a bit of weed at the end of each day, worried what will become of him if he doesn't have something, but not really desiring anything,
briefly complains that everything he owns is breaking, his computer kaput, phone's got a mind of its own, has a hole in his underwear the size of, well, you know...
notes that once you've seen the hole, and known the hole, and held the hole close while falling asleep, you start to notice the movements— the kicking, stretching, tightening— that ripped the hole into existence, one torn thread after another,
Patient had a dream last night that his Father showed up with his nomadic crew of eleven, and while they all went to sleep in the basement, Father set up his sleeping bag right next to mine, fixing the TV to max volume to make sure that neither of us would be getting any sleep,
and woke up in the dark missing him, missing him, missing him.
Patient carries a history that cannot be put down,
and schedules an appointment for November,
says I'll be around.
