Villanelle (“the day I wanted to be dead”)

It was chilly, the day I wanted to be dead,
but the azaleas finally tipped with pink,
finally breaking through the long cold that now bled

tiny vivid spearpoints struggling thru blunted blades,
as if their shrieking magenta opened a chink
in the brick wall. The day I wanted to be dead,

I actually didn’t. Some neuro biochem’d,
gamed my brain, meds and pain that brought me to the brink,
flipped the switch, and broke through the long calm that now fled

from my eyes, while logical-me questioned, and said,
“This makes no sense. I don’t want this. Dammit, stop. Think.
Who loses, and who wins, if I want to be dead?”

Babbling to the boy who held my hand, and listened,
because there was nothing else he could do, but blink,
and hope to break through the long ache that now shed

itself in streams, soaking my scarf. Raw, I just waited
for the weirdness to stop, the cresting ache to sink.
It was chilly, the day I wanted to be dead,
giving up breaking through the long cold that still bled.

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