Grated Carrot

 Grated Carrot

The first suicide is unique.
They always ask you if it was an accident
or a sincere proposition of death.
They shove a tube up your nose,
hard,
it hurts,
and you learn to not disturb the neighbors.
When you begin to explain that
death-actually-seemed-like-the-only-way-out
or that you did it
to-fuck-up-your-husband-and-your-family
they have all turned their backs
and are watching the transparent tube,
retrieving the parade of your last supper.
Betting on whether its noodles or fried rice.
The doctor on duty coldly tells them:
it’s grated carrot.
“Disgusting,“ says the nurse with big lips.
They disposed of me furiously
because no one won the bet.
The saline dispersed quickly
and ten minutes later,
I was back at my house.
No space to mourn
nor time to feel cold and tremble.
People are unconcerned with death that comes from loving too much.
Child’s play
they say
as if children killed themselves every day.
I looked in Hammett for this exact page:
never tell a word about your life
in any book,
if you can help it.

Miyo Vestrini, died by suicide on November 29, 1991, at 53. Cut her veins.