She had a strange evening.
It began hungover, yet relaxed,
because the pills she took last night,
20 to be exact,
didn’t work—

She knew they wouldn’t,
it was a false suicide attempt,
but even playing the role is bad,
and she knows this.

She is not always the confident
woman
she appears to be,
and she doesn’t want to let
everybody know
she is becoming comfortable
with the self-loathing,
so-much-so
it seems to be going
away.

She is tired.

“I’m glad those pills didn’t work.
Those pills.” She said.
She told herself this
because today was beautiful,
in every way-
today she talked to God.
She felt God.

Sleep, need,

she is torn between needing.