Enough, already

Increasingly hard to swallow, life got the better of her
Pill after pill, sip after sip
While the music ranted on and she composed the
“It’s not you, it’s me” final note.
Images of homelessness, war, poverty and disease outside
Flickering on her screen, flanking framed snapshots
Of the family who once made it bearable, made it finally apparent to her
That it all stuck in her craw,
Made her sick
And so very tired.

Afterwards, in the ward
Drained, pumped and IV-d,
Surrounded by stark, crisp white cotton
And reverberating questions
The decision seemed inexplicably irrational,
Unconscionably excessive.
Their carmine, soggy eyes in silent, panicky pleading, wanting to hear
“It was me, not you. There was nothing you could do.”
There was no failure, no attached blame
This penultimate, selfish act was only a game.

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