Suicide

There’s a pain I can’t describe

when I think about that night,

when I think about the air being sucked out of my lungs

when I’m told what you tried to do.

You only tried.

You failed and yet

there’s still this pain

in the pit of my stomach

that makes it hard to talk about

or understand.

It’s like poison pumping through my veins,

tearing away everything I knew to be true of you.

When you swallowed those pills,

I felt it.

I never told you that I could feel it.

You were four hours away

and I swear I could feel it

when you laid down and waited for the end.

That’s when the pain started,

but I couldn’t explain it until days later

when dad sat us down

and told us through the tears

where you would be for thanksgiving that year.

Even when we got the chance to talk

you were too calm,

too put together

too pained

too in need of comfort

for me to find mine.

I still haven’t told you about the pain.

I haven’t told you that there are days were I can’t breathe

because I can feel my stomach drop.

I haven’t told you that every time I see you I check for scars,

that I can’t talk about

read about

write about

think about it without crying my eyes out,

that I don’t ever want to give you medicine again,

that I am angry at you.

I am angry at you.

You took away the trust I had built for you since birth

and I can’t get it back

no matter how hard I try

because now it’s there.

This possibility that was beyond even considering

is there in the probabilities

and it hurts.

It burns

and stabs

and throbs.

You sucker punched me and I still haven’t gotten my air back.

Not since you tried.

I often say

that it’s a good thing you don’t know much about medicine,

but that not really what I mean.

I mean we’re lucky it was you and not me.

If it was me,

I wouldn’t have failed,

and that scares me more than anything,

just having that thought in my head now.

I thought I’d never had before

there like a challenge.

I hate it.

I hate what you did.

I hate what it did to our family

to me.

I hate that it still burns inside me.

I wish you could take it back,

like you talked about in the white room with the crayons,

but you can’t.

There’s a pain I carry with me everywhere now,

a worry that the next phone call I get will be

the one where I lose you,

a fear that every time my stomach drops

you have tried again.

These fears and pains I carry with me

unable to truly describe how awful they hurt.