Kill Me Pills

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about suicide.

Submitted: March 24, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 24, 2014




Sitting curled like a foot on the edge of

a stiff brown couch I tried it that first

time: swallowing the world. The kill me

pills some poetess called them, I sowed

them into the ball of my stomach.


I sat shapeless in my solitude, waiting for

for the sweet rotting mouth to take my

face. It never came. My stomach curled

and tore over the tablets, dissolving them,

I felt them becoming worthless.


I had cried my suicide away, I was seventeen.

Death never came.


They skipped about, happy and screaming, as

I sat drawing the plans for my tomb, counting

the bullets before I swallowed them.


I swallowed those pills like valentine chocolates

and I sat uneasily with the slipknot in my

stomach, gripped in the executioner’s hand,

the noose grinning into my face.


My head opened like a slow, fleshy bloom,

and I stared at my own eye. I watched

myself sitting there, my face half obscured

by the darkness.


This sky like rain was starry and loud, the

wink-wink of crickets and the bawl of night

birds echoed in my stiff silence. I watched

fireflies through the window, some of them

are spirits, you know. I wondered if I would

come back as one—would I come back at all?


I wanted to die, so I tried it again at

eighteen, this time with a blade, I’d

been inspired, but I still failed. I looked

at my flesh, light and childish, smoothed

and lined, ashen and bloodless. The blade

lingered with its medusa mouth and I

pulled it away. I got cold.


Suicides walk, but they walk dead, their

eyes don’t shine. The world goes by like

an idle yellow dress. All the seasons feel

the same: metal on metal, grinding. My

head is like some old flower, smelling of

rot, deadthoughts like perfume dripping

into the half-lidded eye, my iris quivering

as if I might cry.


I laugh until my eyes crinkle, but it’s a

joke, masquerading as a part of their



Suicides don’t last long, it’s a professional

sport, you just keep going back until you

win the war. Its secret, the practice, until

you succeed; sometimes it’s still secret

until it goes too deep.

© Copyright 2019 Stevi Anthony . All rights reserved.

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