Terry B. Stevenson
I stop by our old house on Fairview Street.
It’s a warm and sunny Valentine’s Day,
the good weather not at all unusual
in Southern California.
My mom died in this house,
sleeping the last of her days in narcotic slumber,
feeling no pain, I pray. Now the house is empty,
almost appears abandoned,
waits for my brother to finish his work.
Most of the furniture is gone, drawers left open,
packed boxes in every room, construction dust
covers the kitchen and bathroom floors.
I thought about killing myself in this house.
On those nights that the depression
kept me awake, I would walk to the bathroom,
stare at razor blades for a while, pick one up,
turn my wrist, draw the double-edged blade
along the skin; never enough to break it
only enough to know I could.
—from Rattle #23, Summer 2005
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