Tried to die once.
It was yesterday and a year ago.
I could almost forget it happened.
Slit my throat, to experience the pain and horror.
Only dull knives in my hand though.
Broke a glass jar,
it was no better.
Pulled out a box of rope, looked for a place to hang from.
I’ve read hanging yourself isn’t very reliable.
Brain-damaged and alive is worse than just alive.
Laid on the floor and cried.
Wrote an email to my boss, didn’t want to get fired.
Turned off my phone and went to my parents,
told them what I tried to do.
Police at my house when I got home,
wellness check.
The knife on my couch, they said, meant I needed a professional.
Ambulance rides are mandatory and expensive.
Hospitals are unhelpful and slow.
Counselor’s office is across the street from a gun shop.
Found enough pills to go to sleep forever a week too late.
Found a hunting knife in my truck a few days too late.
Gave it to my friend.
Remembered where I kept a box cutter an hour too late,
tears on the hardwood.
But holding that box cutter makes me shake violently and my gut strangle itself.
I guess this body doesn’t really want to die.
