I have a lot of visions of being dead

sometimes as I sit there,
they make their make way across my mind.
a truck, the bridge,
knife to body,, visions of me
screaming, or hanging by a rope and
now finally being held by someone,
visions of me snotty and
pleading and seizure coming
on.

“You’ve never had to give up anything,”
she says.

I nod, sort of
wither while I’m there,
clutch the white and yellow
plastic I found right outside her
house.
  careful not to put it in your mouth in front of her
I am in my (12th house),
pencil skirt.
(the one imprisoned in loss).
sweater, and my computer
sits idle on my lap.
“I bet you had an easy life,”
she says.

this is my 7th job: case
management. this is my fifth time
nodding out. I am somewhere else
screaming over a toilet,
letting the brain stomach the
powder that makes me euphoric.
they call it an opiate.

“I bet you haven’t suffered.”

It’s 10:30 am,
in five years half of my family
will be dead, my friends absent,
alone in an apartment pre eviction,
cloistered by pandemic,
visions of me dying all long
when you do the rituals, do they make you feel safe?
burgeoning addiction coming back
and the pain.
    opiates help pain

the fucking endless pain.
the endless walks to nowhere
 yes the rituals make me feel safe.
the vomiting and dizziness,
aches. fret.

but not yet.

“So you can’t relate.”

“Safe”