Suicide.

Suicide.

“You suck at suicide.”
I look up at Lola.
She’s standing in front of the bathtub,
Watching me and frowning.
Go away. I’m busy.
I dig the blade into my wrist.
the pain is sharp,
it cuts me to the bone.
A tear rolls silently down my cheek;
Lola wipes it away with her thumb.
“It’s not going to work, sweetie.
You’ve tried this one before.
Remember?
It was right after the pills
and right before you dropped that hairdryer in your bath.”
I know. But this time, I’m going through with it.
“I won’t let you.”
She pries the cold blade from my fingers
and sends it flying through the window,
where it sticks in a tree.
She wraps a warm, wet washcloth around my arm.
“You suck at suicide, remember?”