my childhood home had a basement-
to some, that meant my days were spent in fun while to others, terror
but to me, the basement was nothing notable-
it was the stairs.
the old and dark wood, the black darkness behind each step...
what was back there, anyways?
it was the kind of staircase you'd see in a horror movie,
much like the one in the store i now work at.
this one is so narrow it spikes my anxiety, and the concrete steps are a recipe for disaster.
and i had another set of steps in my recent home that i could've sworn was haunted-
all of my family members who lived there had multiple dangerous experiences on it.
and yet none of these staircases ever really scared me.
but there was one home-
the only one that really felt like home-
that somehow had the most horrifying set of stairs.
normal tan carpet, wide hall, safe steps,
certainly no fear of a demon wanting to hurt me
but it wasn't a demon i had to worry about.
this was the staircase my room was right next to,
the one that i crossed several times a day
and each time i did so,
the images got more intense.
my depression was not kind to me in that time period,
for dark thoughts were almost the only ones,
and suicide was anything but an exception.
so many times-
all the time, really-
i imagined throwing myself down those stairs.
sometimes i think about them,
and what i would've missed out on if i ever did it.
but sometimes
only when i've left my parents' and
my roommate's not home and
my boyfriend isn't on the phone,
i instead think about what i should have missed.