The doctor said sheep were the cure for my insomnia.
I figured suicide was worth a shot instead.

I decided to bash my head against the wall a hundred times.

I couldn’t tell you why. I didn’t know what it would accomplish or what I would be by the end of it, but I was sure it would bear fruit, and even more confident that ‘remaining awake' would not be an option left on the vine.

So I got up off the floor—the finest bed money could afford in these parts—and moved slowly towards the wall. I sensed an eagerness in my stride that had been absent from my being for God know’s how long. It was as if I was a child again, sneaking deep behind enemy lines during the early dawn of our fragile Christmas ceasefire. I had learned how to endure bloodshed—surveying the battlefield before forever war sprung again. Like a lover spurned eternal.

That was the first bash.
I hadn’t even noticed it.

The second bash came as a surprise.

I didn’t think I would do it. At least, I didn’t originally think I had it in me. The pain and shock of the first strike—the noises no doubt now confusing the neighbors—would have snapped me out of my spell. But first strike was not yet first blood.

I didn’t feel a thing. And so came the third bash.

I wondered if they would resent me for this—anymore than they already did. It was within my character to assemble particleboard dreck during the godless hours, so I suppose it was still within reason to continue hammering away.

I was a beggar on the streets, helpless and screaming, washing down all those piss poor reasons with the same cup thieved from all their good suppers. My barefeet scarred by the deep cuts of a thousand shattered ornaments. That would change soon though—I had an entire dream home left to assemble tonight.

I wasn’t sure if I had really hit Bash No. 9. I counted again, just to be sure. I was never good at keeping a record.

I thought of every push-up left half-done.
Maybe that’s why I was so weak.

But that was past tense. I was stronger now. More disciplined.

I was ready.

I thought of his words, without plan or meaning, as I reached the twentieth blow. His shakey voice echoed down my bloodline, between all the endless fields and broken plains, forever drowning in uneaten flesh. They were burning—salting the earth, making away for the next generations of hooverville splendor. It was a silent scream:

I thought it was only thought. But I thought I had always thought too much.
I felt the blood between my fingers.
My scream was not silent.

The next bash was the most excruciating.
The pain of the last thirty exploded within me, one-by-one.
I died thirty times.
I was reborn zero.
There was no end.
All I found was that there was a grave-within-a-grave-within-a-grave-within.

I didn’t think there was a thirty-first bash. I realized then that ‘thirty’ was such a stupid fucking word. I had no use for thirty anymore.
My count left me,
although she had just arrived.

I wondered what she would think of me now—mindless—synapse and sinew mashed into one putrid stew. Of course I didn’t need to wonder—I already knew the answer, even in the midst of my little vanishing act.
She wasn’t wondering at all.
She was the one ramming my skull into the concrete.

I begged for a moment’s respite as her count reached sixty-four. That number brought me back, although I would be too ashamed to admit why.
It was no use though—my lifelong toils had earned me a final destination vacation. She believed in that far more than she’d ever believed in me.
The wall showed its true bias then—my throat upon jagged edge.
Senseless pleading ceased.
Howling windpipes syncopated the count.
There would be no stopping her now.
The neighbors must be relieved at least—asylum sleep was always above the smuggled tobacco.

I think I thought of trying to fight back as the count turned seventy. I couldn’t remember though. I didn’t even find the sixty-ninth funny. Odd.
I felt like I was drowning in a whirlpool my own viscera.
The world was racing away.
Crashing at every speed.
And so had she.
like a mother spurn eternal.

i had to eat my vegetables before desert
barren, desiccated, dry
endlessly wry
like my features now
no room for argument
no bed to sleep in
no door to knock on
no neighbors to tread upon
no table to commune over
voices echoing
no one awake
the light comes on

piercing light
i looked up at my father
vision blurred
shadows swarming
i begin to see
he had no face
i had no face

he had bashed my head
or had i done that one
it was number 8 5
but who was keeping track?
there was only one mile left
i had to finish the race
he had raised me better

i had sworn 90 broke through it
jolting my wallmate unmet
from sleep to nightmare
they wouldn’t know johnny’s face
so i would be jack’s
it was all the same

ninetyfive awarded reflection
at last
i looked through failing sights
my work before me
pupils slashed
tears bloody
i saw the cavity
where my soul lay

first skin freed
living a new life
in the hole i dug
it wasnt a wound
it was a mirror
i stared daggers into my own eyes
stabbing me back
with terrified portent

second skin remained
yet harder flayed
i would not be deterred
fear cannot erase

there was no wall
so i hit it again.