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I was privy to meticulous premonitions of self-harm

an arsenal of safety pins stuck into forearms

fingertips scalded to blistering on a three-cup Bialetti

drawing pin to the gums

disposable razor blade

lid of a tuna can

grind teeth until tasting blood

and worse – of my death by suicide

letters of terrible sadness composed to the children,

the wife, the realization, then,

that there was no one else to write

hanged from the very tree I lay

beneath for lunch

leaves against the blue sky

the grey sky

every lunch I’d see my hanged body

and the leaves

the sky

face swollen

we’re crushed by this world and by each other.