Wednesday, March 23, 2011




I was deleting old e-mails, and there it was...
The suicide letter that I wrote to you.
I suppose it wasn't really a letter,
only a few desperate lines and misspelled words
so atypical of me who prides herself on rarely needing spellcheck.
I had taken an entire bottle of Xanax,
sent the e-mail,
and then off I went to the movies with my family.
There was a good chance that you wouldn't read it in time
and by the time you did,
I was already incoherent,
and nearly passed out in the theatre.
I awoke in the hospital,
Swarms of insects flying all around me,
my hands swatting at the empty air.
The next five days were spent sullenly staring out the hospital window
into the darkness of winter.
Why do I relive this now?
I'm more than sorry.
I'm ashamed.
You had every right to be angry
telling me that I could no longer e-mail you.
I worried that you wouldn't see me again.
Sometimes you ask me if I feel safe.
Safe with myself, no, sometimes I don't...
I always have safe people to reach out to.
I wish that I could say that it is off the table,
but there are the whispered voices.
I cannot say that I won't listen.
I can't make promises,
but I'm holding on.

Angela Minard 2011©


Poe Lover said...

A tragic and telling story told masterfully and artfully.