Maybe a quiet sliver to the wrist,
or a murder of pills
crowing from the bottle.
This is a gunless house
so no exit wound
or bullet found stuck
in drywall,
extracted carefully
with the sharp beak of tweezers
by an expert in
collateral damage.
A missed dose of
Effexor,
whose generic name is
within 24-48 hours,
your brain will go to war
against you.
Jet engines and cannonballs
making it difficult to ignore
the certainty of my own voice.
I shook my head
so the noise
could drip out of my ears,
like after going swimming
with bullies
and surviving.

James Roach (they/he) is a queer, trans, sober poet most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He currently lives in St. Louis.
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