her blues

she can hardly
stop
from doing what she does,
staring
at the blue
thin veins
on her wrist.
each year, coming closer
to her goal.
neither pills, or
therapy
seem to work, each
a soft pillow
gone cold, barbed
with feathers.
she feels as if she
could
disappear at any moment,
by her hand,
or the hand of others,
walk off
into the blue.
the hesitation
in her voice
when speaking
saying more of where
she is,
and is going,
without me.