Early Winter
I understand why most suicides happen,
this time of the year.
I take to my bed for long stretches of time,
hibernating like a polar bear,
waking only for food
or the sound of rain bouncing
off the roof outside my open window.
I watch my bangs grow,
through clenched tight eyelids,
or immerse myself in historical fiction,
trading reality for corseted, flirty women,
and grand medieval royal courts.
I’ve chewed the red off my fingernails,
reflecting my mental state over you.
Lightning flashes outside
but I am “safe” underneath fluorescent lights,
watching my life pass me by,
pass me by.
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