I Control This


United States
38° 37' 33.8016" N, 76° 58' 12.2412" W

When the toes of my shoes dangled off two inch concrete cliffs,

you put a hand on my shoulder.

I wasn't sure if you were going to pull me into you or push.


The cars whizzed by.

The hubcaps smiling; their teeth gleaming; Inviting.

You said, "Darling, your eyes hold bruises of thoughtfilled nights."


You told me the asphalt was a matress.

Tires were pillows I could store my dreams.

I could feel weightless and fly.

A metal body going seventy five in a fifty is the warmest kind,

One that will envelop me in bliss and silence.

I wondered which blanket would suit me best;

the baby blue Porsche or the Ford,

red like my mother's eyes when she tells me she loves me.

I just cshake my head because your fingers cup my jaw.


The world worships the sun.

The stars align into godly constellations.

The moon rolls the tides like a finished scripture,

all independent from you,

but this, you control this. 

"Pick a color",you said, as you squeezed my shoulder,

"any color."


Before I took the plunge, I realized,

My new bed would be clean and small with no teddy bear or night light.

No more summer nights of divine constelations and angelic butterflies.

I would never again hear the psalms of that scripture calling me to swim.

My mothers eyes would be puffed, seeing me sleeping.

The blood not camoflauged by that red truck. 

She wouldn't know how much I loved her too. 


"I control this",

I said as I shrugged your hand away.

I pick the yellow of the sun worshipped by the world.

The shadow of midnight.

The white foamy tides, holding hyms of the moon.

The same white in my mother's eyes and teeth when I tell her, today, 

I love her

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Brianna Lally

This poem is based off a time when I was contemplating suicide. I was fourteen and I lived near a highway so some days after school I would go by it and think about stepping in front of a car. One day I realized what I would miss if I were to carry out the deed and I decided not to. Now here I am, three years later, in recovery from clinical depression. Things really do get better

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