By Gwen Morris

i think the hardest part about
coming to terms with suicidality in the 
midst of

"recovery"

is that sure-it might be a learned product of 

your years of trauma,

nuts, bolts, and brain waves, ricocheting and

burrowing into the sensitive parts of your lobes; numbing 

and chilling.

and you can understand the numbers,
the chemicals and chaos
 on a sheet of paper, 

prescriptions printed out glossy; fine toothed over 

and over in

some psychiatrists office.

you can feel their drooping gazes across the 
bottom of their glasses, judging and 
admonishing the newest relapse

but

the sentiment, those "get well soon" teddy bears in cheery cards

 never really sticks does it?


for when you lay down
four years past is still

yesterday night in the recesses of your 
neurons


the slow 

steady 
 
way 

your hand brought 
thirty-five pills 
to an aching tongue;


and daydreaming about
 hanging up on the 

campus police

is as good a lullaby as mother goose.