The Ibuprofen's red stare burns
through the desk drawer, blazes
four inches into my belly;
I know; I don't touch it, but I know
it's there, and I know so am I.
I can take two, just two of the
sleeping pills, just two and I can't
find the scissors because I hid them
one day when fear was stronger
than sadness, but I know
they're there, and I know so am I.
If I went to the hospital they'd scold
after they saved me but maybe I'd pay
that price for the distraction of what
comes first--a new kind of pain,
a sensation I've never felt, and I don't want
to tell you because I love you, but I know
you're there, and I know so am I.