Hannah Page

SELF-IMMOLATION

I went to the hospital because I was lonely.
Let me backtrack. 
I poured a vodka Red Bull then chugged straight from the bottle.
I texted all the boys in my phone and my best guy friend, who I told to “come fuck.” 
That was an accident.
I hallucinated a classmate sitting on my couch.
I was naked.

I called 911 on myself.
The embarrassment followed me to the psych ward.
Hard bed.
Nettlesome blanket.
No pillow.
Do they suspect we would smother ourselves?

I know enough not to use the word “suicide” in the presence of doctors.
That’s how you get committed.
This wasn’t like the time I charged at a security guard, failing/ to get past him.
I felt safe here. Still, I didn’t want to be locked up for days,
Like that time when I just wanted my meds adjusted
And they sent me to a facility in White Plains
And kept me for almost a week.

I walked out into the gray dawn.
The cold in my bones. A familiar relief rising.
Somebody had scooped out my insides like a pumpkin.
I can’t know for sure.
My body hummed at a frequency I could feel but not hear.
My skin unpeeled, exposing a chasm.
There was something decent about that.