Tell my nephew I am sorry. Tell my sister I’m sorry she had to be the one to tell my nephew. Tell her I was afraid of her judgement. Tell my mother I wasn’t bluffing. Tell my brothers I was going back to get the brother who didn’t survive, the one before me. Tell them that this was my apology to him. Tell my grandmother to please open up the gates, I know this really wasn’t the way she expected to see me again, but this is how I am unraveled. Tell her… never mind, I’ll tell her myself.
Tell my other suicide notes they asses weren’t poems either. Tell my roommate I’m sorry he had to be the one to find the body. Tell the blood, “be quick about it already!” Tell Ryan, my love, that everything has his name on it. Tell the man that threatened my life, I won, too slow in this human’s race. Tell the downstairs neighbors I’m sorry for the thud. Tell Aerys I’m sorry I couldn’t be the best man in her wedding. Tell Duran he was right, one day I would. Tell Jeffery I imagined it was him pulling the trigger. Don’t tell my little brother - don’t tell Rashad unless he asks. Please.
Tell my father, “if we make it to the same place, could you at least try to talk to me first this time?” Tell depression, “good game! I almost had you, motherfucker!” Tell the psychiatrist the medicine ain’t workin’. Tell the floor it was a beautiful final bed, a last pair of arms, a wooden womb of an exit. Tell my feet, “stop running.” Tell my body, “keep the pills down.” The volume in my stomach is coming up - tell the volume, “quiet; don’t moan.”
Tell the pain I said goodbye. Tell goodbye I said hello. Tell Jessica, “I know - don’t follow me.” Tell Mobile Crisis Cleveland they are a sorry bunch of entitled assholes. Tell my ex-boyfriends to whisper my name. Now they know the sound of a dodged bullet. Tell the police I always leave the door unlocked. Tell them I won’t bother them again. Tell them I’m fine, I don’t need to go, I… I get to take what’s mine - handcuffs.Tell the ER it looks like temporary. Tell the ER I’m gonna rename in my father’s presence. Tell Mother Nurse, don’t smile and hold my hand, don’t look like my mother, don’t tell me I can heal, don’t lie to me now, don’t give me stories to read, don’t name our laughter, my nephew’s smile. Don’t you show me what I got to live for, don’t make me want this again, please don’t make me fight. I’m tired, and no, I don’t want it to be better! Better is only a father’s presence. Don’t wash off the scabs, don’t fix the brokenness that is all that I know.
Tell Renee, tell Nurse Renee… [exhales loudly]
Tell Renee I said thanks. Tell her I said thank you. Tell my nephew… tell them all I said thank you. Tell God I said, “send another one, every day”. Tell chocolate I said thank you. Tell Greek yogurt I’m back. Tell them I am home. Tell them I’m home, home is here, no matter what the shatter or the clatter I am here. I am Miss Celie here, I am so present!
Tell God, whoever he, or she, or they are, thanks, but next time, I won’t be seein’ ‘em soon.