The rope was coiled and stowed behind the front seat of the truck
After he pulled up he sat there for a while
He could use the knife, he thought again
He had figured out the noose months back
Had been obsessing about it really
Tying and retying it over and over
But he wasn’t sure
Something about it troubled him
So in the end, he said fuck it
It’ll be the knife
He was going to do it then and there
But he thought about how hard it would be to clean up the blood
Since it was the company truck and all
He figured he knew who’d have to do it
So he decided to go into the woods to the tree he’d picked out
Which kind of made some kind of weird sense
He sat on the ground with his back against the tree
Pulled the trusty Buck knife out of the leather holster at his waist
And for one last time went through the shit list
That’s what he called it
All the crap that had been piling up
Like his charade of a marriage
Held together by shared debt and guilty responsibility
The debts were even worse than his unfuckable wife
He owed so much money
No matter that he was making some pretty decent coin
The debt just kept hovering until the next emergency
When it would grow even more
He thought about his shitty job in the shitty company
Fracking
Here he was, really a tree-hugging hippie at heart
Working in one of the worst industries on the planet
Environmentally
It’s like every day he plays his part in gang banging mother nature
Fucking bastards
He thinks
He thinks about all the assholes he’s encountered
On his way to this end of the road
He knows his shit list by heart
He opens his shirt
Plunges the knife in without any more thinking
Right to the hilt and sits there waiting to die
Not realizing he missed the heart
Still, there’s a lot of blood
It hurts like hell
Then it’s like being walloped over the head with a frying pan
Not like any headache he ever had before
It’s an urgent screaming icepick to the brain
Which staggers him awake and to his feet
Stumble climbing up the slope to the road
Where he collapses before reaching the truck
He comes to in the hospital
Strapped into a bed and barely able to focus
Pain claims his attention
Until it’s muffled by the meds
He doesn’t make it easy on himself or the staff
After he recovers enough
They stick him into solitary on the psych ward
Under observation
The walls aren’t padded but its pretty basic
48 hours of coming down into himself
Then it’s back to the ward
Shrinks and meds and nurses
His fucking family all phoning and mouthing platitudes
Saying things that sound like Reader’s Digest dialogue
Scripted by writers that used to work for Oprah
He thinks about calling bullshit on their bullshit
Then decides to forgive them
And starts to forgive himself
Uncoiling and untying the knots around his heart
Sobbing, in relief
David Trudel © 2013
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Knife
The rope was coiled and stowed behind the front seat of the truck
After he pulled up he sat there for a while
He could use the knife, he thought again
He had figured out the noose months back
Had been obsessing about it really
Tying and retying it over and over
But he wasn’t sure
Something about it troubled him
So in the end, he said fuck it
It’ll be the knife
He was going to do it then and there
But he thought about how hard it would be to clean up the blood
Since it was the company truck and all
He figured he knew who’d have to do it
So he decided to go into the woods to the tree he’d picked out
Which kind of made some kind of weird sense
He sat on the ground with his back against the tree
Pulled the trusty Buck knife out of the leather holster at his waist
And for one last time went through the shit list
That’s what he called it
All the crap that had been piling up
Like his charade of a marriage
Held together by shared debt and guilty responsibility
The debts were even worse than his unfuckable wife
He owed so much money
No matter that he was making some pretty decent coin
The debt just kept hovering until the next emergency
When it would grow even more
He thought about his shitty job in the shitty company
Fracking
Here he was, really a tree-hugging hippie at heart
Working in one of the worst industries on the planet
Environmentally
It’s like every day he plays his part in gang banging mother nature
Fucking bastards
He thinks
He thinks about all the assholes he’s encountered
On his way to this end of the road
He knows his shit list by heart
He opens his shirt
Plunges the knife in without any more thinking
Right to the hilt and sits there waiting to die
Not realizing he missed the heart
Still, there’s a lot of blood
It hurts like hell
Then it’s like being walloped over the head with a frying pan
Not like any headache he ever had before
It’s an urgent screaming icepick to the brain
Which staggers him awake and to his feet
Stumble climbing up the slope to the road
Where he collapses before reaching the truck
He comes to in the hospital
Strapped into a bed and barely able to focus
Pain claims his attention
Until it’s muffled by the meds
He doesn’t make it easy on himself or the staff
After he recovers enough
They stick him into solitary on the psych ward
Under observation
The walls aren’t padded but its pretty basic
48 hours of coming down into himself
Then it’s back to the ward
Shrinks and meds and nurses
His fucking family all phoning and mouthing platitudes
Saying things that sound like Reader’s Digest dialogue
Scripted by writers that used to work for Oprah
He thinks about calling bullshit on their bullshit
Then decides to forgive them
And starts to forgive himself
Uncoiling and untying the knots around his heart
Sobbing, in relief
David Trudel © 2013
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Tagged as blank verse, clinical depression, creative writing, creativity, depression, free verse, poetry, self harm, social commentary, suicide, universal peace