Poetry – The Edge

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Damnit. “Is that my alarm?” I think as,

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

I slowly open one eye….

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The pain in my head hits as soon as the light reminds me…

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Oh fuck,” I am still alive.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep……

“Oh fuck,” I failed again.

“Oh fuck,” once again I have to face this life.

Four times before, in less than 12 months,

I’ve failed once again.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want to live this life.

Once again, I’ve proven the failure I am.

Once again, I’ve proven the adage that practice does not – in fact – make one an expert on how to end their life.

Instead, Once again I have to talk to the psychologist.

Once again, they’re going to volun-tell me that I need to stay to be observed.

Once again, they’re going to make me sit here for five days.

Once again, they’re going to write up a “mental health plan.”

And once again, they’re going to make it impossible for me to get the help.

The help I so OBVOUSLY needed.

So many times, I know I showed all the warning signs.

So many times, I directly asked for help.

Publicly I was calm. Silently I was screaming.

So many times, no one believed me.

So many times, everyone blamed the drugs.

So many times, I tried to tell you.

It was the drugs that were saving me from falling off the edge.

So many times, closer and closer I was pushed to the ledge.

So many times, I jumped.

And so many times, so many times I failed.

And I’m still here.

After so many times, proving I was unable to become an expert at ending my life,

I guess now, I have to become an expert at living my life.

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