There is yellow caution tape

around my wrist. It is the only

thing that stands out in this pristine

white bathroom that feels more like

a grocery store. A stranger’s foot

holds the door open as a woman’s

voice asks if I am almost done. I reply

“yes” as I watch the cold water run

over my bruised wrists from where I ripped

out the IV. I never liked anything

getting under my skin. Later

the psychologist opens the glass door

to my room to assess my mental

state. “It’s mandatory,” the nurse

says before leaving. His burly,

bearded mouth asks me how many

times I have tried to end my life. I stare

at the bare wall behind him and say “I never

liked anything getting under my skin.”