November 12, 2009

“Dear moon, have you ever heard a song that made you want to die?” This is the last line of one of Shira Erlichman’s poems. The poem is sort of written like some strangely coherent Stream of Consciousness of a seven year old child. The first time I heard this poem I cried. I cried because in it, Shira talks about how only she and her family speak Hebrew, and how there are roaches in their apartment. I speak Polish. There are roaches everywhere. Mostly I cried because sometimes I hear songs that make me want to die. They are inside of me. I guess we all have reasons for wanting to die. Tonight I sat with them on a metal bench outside the cafeteria and listened to them talk about their lives. “How many times have you tried to kill yourself?” They asked me. I have never wished so strongly to not have an answer to a question. “Three.” “Wow. I feel better then. I’ve only tried once.” “Oh really? I can count nine times since I was 12.” We all have different reasons for wanting to die. Sometimes we don’t even know those reasons. Sometimes those reasons are far removed from the life we currently live. They are just scars from worse times. Scars never go away. I would know. My body is a cutting board. I am hard and made of wood. You can not split me open. I can’t even split myself open. It was cold as we sat outside on the metal bench. He flicked his cigarette and looked in my eyes as he spoke. We all have different reasons. In that moment I wanted to hug them to me. I love them so deeply. I love this life so deeply. I feel like I say this often, but nothing ever changes. Maybe I don’t really love anything at all. Maybe I am just thirsty for something that won’t ever exist. Maybe I should just die? We all have different reasons for wanting to die. There is a lump in my throat right now. It is as big as the moon’s fat face. I don’t want to die. Sometimes it just feels like I have to. Sometimes I wonder if the moon feels this way too. Sometimes I wonder why things just won’t change for any of us.