this infection

in suicide, i'm left alone.
my pockets, filled with heavy stones
will guide me to my last mistake -
i'll drown myself in Blackett's Lake.

i'm sad and want to kill myself.
i keep a knife tucked in my shelf.
a little cut, a little slit -
when i'm alone, i'll slash my wrists.

my doctor withholds all my pills.
i wait a week between refills
because he thinks i'll eat them all.
i think that he would be appalled

to know how tricky i can be.
my illness takes a hold of me.
it's something i've done more than once -
i hoard my pills for months and months.

i hide it well, but i'm a wreck.
i'll wrap this rope around my neck.
asphyixiated offerings,
i'll kick the chair and then i'll swing.

i'll live with this, my last mistake.
the last mistake i'll ever make.
i know that i'm not coming home.
in suicide, i'm left alone.

i get into these fits of mood
that make me want to kill myself.
it's self-destruction, i suppose.

i keep my sharps upon the shelf.
i need to fuck my body up,
i'll die before i ask for help.

i sometimes burn. i sometimes cut,
or pierce my flesh with sewing pins.
when i'm not starving, i throw up.

i shave my head down to the skin.
one cigarette? i'd rather two.
i chase my beer with shots of gin.

it makes me feel somewhat new,
these things i feel i have to do.