I remember
other Novembers

they weren't so long ago

I remember the
handfulls of pills
the hospitals
the doctors
the nurses
the watchers

I haven't been strong enough
yet, to kill myself,
although that first time
I nearly did succeed.

Two hundred thirty three pills
I counted.
But it was the shot
of Jack Daniels
left in my lover's bottle
in the cupboard
that saved me
made me vomit
after I passed out.

Succeeding at death
is harder work
and more dirty
than you might imagine.

These days I'm more on the living
side of things
I guess.

It's been five years
since that sixth
of November, and they've
been gruelling.

Out of the five
three have seen me
inside a hospital
but last year
I made it before
I could do anything
stupid
turned myself in

(does that cancel out
February, when I attempted
again, after weeks and
weeks of the meds not working
and spiralling so hard?

I don't know.)

I remember other Novembers
I do
and this year
somehow, some way
feels different

Things might be okay.

I keep plugging away...

Things might be okay.

11/02/2007

Posted on 11/02/2007
Copyright © 2024 Gira Bryant