they say that admitting
there is a problem is the first
step. that afterward the
precipice approaches and you
dangle a heel over, aching
to have your lungs shocked
into not breathing.

except you don't really want it,
you just want to go back to bed
in a room where books and old
underwear are stuffed beneath the covers.
you never sleep, dark circles have
moved beyond bruising to permanence.

they say once you stop
bleeding for yourself and
become your own person
that it will get better.
that those rusted blades
will never be needed
again. or the exact opposite,
you're wedded to them the
way your grandmother was
wedded to her husband
(at least until he remarried
and left her to the gossips).
like you're some kind of fucking addict
who will never be one person again,
instead you're one of many.

you say this isn't it
when people ask how long
you've been recovered. you're
just eight years older than
that girl who threw herself
into the fast lane of the freeway
and everything is muffled on this pill
and that pill.
the whole world is wrapped in cotton
and the smudging of your
inked fingers is the only mark
you can leave.

four pills downed with apple
juice and then you've thrown
the mummified blood away,
filed down your long nails. the old
hospital bracelet sheared off
after the plastic had come
loose and your name was
just a blur.

was this the choice?

is this it?