Alain Ginsberg is an agender writer and performer from Baltimore, MD whose work focuses on gender, sexuality, and mental health and the ways trauma weaves and takes hold of the narrative. Their work is featured or forthcoming from Hyrsteria, Crab Fat Magazine, Shabby Dollhouse, and elsewhere. Their chapbook UNTIL THE COWS COME HOME (2016) is published through Elation Press. Outside of writing they are trying their best to french braid
The Worst Part About Being Alive Is You Can Only Kill Yourself Once
For the past several weeks and for the next several more
I have been saying that all I want is death and
dying, like a prayer that you know the ending to,
like I know the ending to anything that doesn’t make me sad.
What I mean, usually, is that I’m tired,
that I want sleep, to not work a job
or two, and still feel like I’m not doing enough,
that I feel like I’m not doing enough,
that I’m not living a life for two, or more, who can’t.
What I mean, sometimes, is that last night
I fell asleep wondering how similar tie knots
are to noose knots, if I own anything strong enough
to hold me in place, to make me feel weightless
or, as empty as I tell myself I am.
I once took a course on knot tying and left
with an itchy neck, how sometimes the end
of a book is so obvious we pretend it wont come true.
What I mean, always, is that I miss you,
how I know the only way to get close
is to unbecome, to be both exit and exit-wound.
Once, it took me over a year and a half to visit
a grave with your name on it, how sometimes
even when we know something isn’t going anywhere
it’s hard to be in the same place at the same time,
how sometimes your grave enters me and forms a field
of grass across my skin like something so alive could live
with such death in it, how sometimes I wake up
marbleized and am unable to move
without breaking you, how you broke me.
What I mean is, I think the worst part about being alive
is that you can only kill yourself once.
How I wonder if you would do it again,
how I know I would, again, and again,