I asked my doctor once why he thought I wrote
so many poems about suicide.
And this man, the one with the diagnostic manual
and the white lab coat and the messy handwriting,
looked at me and told me he did not know.
Writing poems about suicide is almost the same thing,
for me, as riding an elevator from the very top floor
to the very bottom.
My heart whooshes in my chest like it’s been blown around
by the wind, and everything drops at a mile a minute.
I guess I love the feeling of losing control.
It’s too bad there’s no cure for that.