a poem about life and rotting

like fresh cut fruit,
every damn single second, i oxidize and i decay.
since the first day i knew, the one where i left my mother's womb
through push and laughing gas and push, her efforts put me here, on earth
at some point (in our mid-twenties i think)
we stop reproducing new cells faster than the old ones die, something we are lucky enough to have until then.
we age further, and we continue to slow and slow, and we watch ever so helplessly in whatever psychological state these events occurring puts us in,
as those we love age too, and even harder still
we watch as some never get that chance to grow old and wither before their days are gone

i have been alive now
for over twenty-seven years. twenty seven full times, this planet i was assigned has rotated around a star
this is despite my best efforts for a long while to die and rot; to perish
i sort of no longer have that desire- at least the same way and in its same form,
it is a dangerous beast - perhaps not dead not yet, not ever, but certainly contained.
and i am hyper-aware that at some point a few years ago
or maybe before that, or maybe today, perhaps even in a few weeks
my cells stop keeping up with themselves,
or with the cuts and bruises and damage that could be inflicted; gathered; collected; and coat my body
or even go deep. i already have battle scars, telling the stories of which would take years to do justice

so now imagine
you, with a sharp blade. the kind that is not dull from use.
if you cut my tender flesh open; just like fruit, i'd oxidize, i'd die
my blood would turn from bright red to eventually the deepest garnet,
but old blood does not shine like a polished gemstone. it is hard and it is ugly. it can clog a passageway within the body
just like it is designed to do, to clot at the wound. to stop it bleeding out.
so now i sit here wondering whether this process of oxidizing saves us, or destroys us
but i think now, after much time and thought, it does neither, or both, whichever i suppose.
it is a part of the larger mechanic that is the body
which is designed to be born and then oxidize and then die

for you see
while i sit here, pondering the intrusive suicidal urges
that pop up like ocd-powered clockwork and invade my brain
but i have some control, so i use it; i have some thoughts, i think that they are my own.
maybe it will never be important - the fact that we die, or suffer, or bleed
it will never matter in the grand scheme of things that i counted the tiles on the off-white ceiling
of my psychiatrist's waiting room anxiously, or that my brain cannot stop obsessing over death and rot
i risk sounding corny, a fear ingrained not quite deep enough from childhood for me to actually speak:
it matters not that we die, for it matters that we live, and what we do as we live, for as our cells rot we are given a gift, of time.
we are given only a handful, a torn-off piece, a meager chunk, but oh, it is ours.

written and performed by zélie
filmed and edited by zélie
sugarette.net
xxoo

remember to google local helpline numbers and CALL if u need to reach out, if you're struggling, if you're dealing with suicidality. i love you.

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