Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

Where I lived pills didn't come in bottles. Pills came in boxes, popped out individually. It gives you time to count each pill.

Forty parecetemol. Twenty benzodiazepines. Seventeen antidepressents.

And then you're given time to repeat those numbers over and over again. Hand crafting notes, eyes dry all I could think was, forty, twenty, seventeen.

When I collapse. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

When my brother finds me. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

In the ambulance. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

When I try to escape. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

When I'm restrained. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

My wrists were far more red than my hair when they had brought me in. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

I realise that my parents are crying more than I am bleeding. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

This is what a selfish person looks like. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.

Let the darkness swallow me hole as I scream. Forty. Twenty. Seventeen.