Out Patient

Posted on June 3, 2003 in Poems

They check my wrists for scars

they count my pills

they see what kind of knots I make with my shoelaces

and they decide that I am happy

because they see no signs of suicide.

I’m sorry to inform them

that I won’t be doing myself away.

I’ll die in an uninteresting fashion

and they will forget me with clear consciences.