I still remember the way she looked at me
the day Google told her I needed
my stomach pumped
pumped
pumped
pumped.

She was so scared, the keys were shaking in her hands
as she told him to drive
drive
drive
drive
because she couldn’t.

She turned to me, from the passenger seat,
“What are you doing to me?”
I tried to think of a good answer
but my stomach was in my brain
and my brain was in my abdomen
and I wondered just how many more little red pills
it would have taken
to have my eyes closed.

They asked me the same question
five different times that night,
their lab coats too bright for my eyes.
First they asked politely, protocol,
then they asked in desperate whispers,
connect the dots.
“How many did you take?”
Twenty.
“Only, I think, maybe 10.”

“Why did you take so many?”
he asked, eyeing my wrists and thighs.
“Because of the pain.”
Pain
Pain
Pain.
“Where is the pain?”
I tried to say, “everywhere.” but
my hands pointed to my pelvis
and I was discharged after that.

I still remember the way she looked at me
the day Google told her
her daughter might just die.
And that was enough for me
to never again try,
try
try.