She tells me she took a full bottle, my best friend.
I imagine all that medicine in that little body,
hunting for what so desperately
She tells me she left a note.
She says that feeling when she came out of it –
opening her eyes to the plaster
of her bedroom ceiling, disappointment –
she never wants to feel that way again.
And Saturday night, he tells me –
from across the coffee between us,
as if miles away,
he says, “I tried to kill myself this summer.”
And I can’t say the word “suicide” while
looking someone in the eye.
My words are empty palms holding out nothing
but I offer them anyway.