Almost GONE FROM SHARPIE ( vent poem ) ( repost from spacehey )

Yeah,
I almost fucking died Saturday night,
From a goddamn Sharpie.
The smell was thick like regret,
clogged my throat like lies do.
Right arm? Numb.
Legs? Jelly.
Chest? Heavy.
Fell on the floor,
twice down the stairs.
God was busy but I was begging anyway.

I dragged myself to Grandma—
retired nurse, sharp as vinegar.
Told her I couldn’t breathe,
that I felt like death,
words slurring like my future.
She asked,
“Did you OD on your anxiety pills?”
No, I swear, it was the Sharpie.
She said, “Stop lying.”
But I wasn’t.
That plastic bullet almost took me out.

She made me drink 3 bottles of water,
then I puked it all out—
like I was trying to purge the pain,
but it’s stuck in my marrow.
My heart was racing like a dog off leash.
Looked up how to slow it down
but even Google can’t fix this kind of panic.

I used to sniff Expo markers in 5th grade.
Got high on the fumes
because school made me feel like I was underwater
and sniffing was breathing.

I’m tired.

Of breathing in fumes just to feel something.
Of school that crushes,
family that pushes,
and a world that doesn’t listen
unless you’re already gone.

But I’m still here.
Barely.
For now.