In the bathroom mirror, I saw myself spin
like a whirling dervish in the glass.
I stood tip-toed and reached for pill bottles,
turning their labels over in my hands.
I filled a mug—half-empty—with tap water
and set it down on the edge of the sink.
Then, turning it over, I threw my head back
and washed down the pills.
I saw myself—glassy-eyed—in the vanity.
A hairline fracture cut across my reflection
and my right eye was smudged out.
I sat on the foot of the bed,
then sulked over into the comforter.
I wrung the salt out of my eyes
and rubbed my nose raw as silk.
I read a passage from a book
left carelessly open on the nightstand.
I ran my hand over the annotations I'd made—
then, something as fine as spun glass inside me frayed.
I laid my head on the cool, downy pillow,
screwed my eyes shut, and prayed.
The words lilted at first and then slurred and then stopped.
My head spun on my shoulders like a wooden top.
Settling into oblivion, my forehead perspired,
my throat burned, and my stomach was afire.
This is the first death from which I sprung back into the world of the living.
All else is secondary from here on out—a little taking—a little giving.
