Poem of the Week By Patricia Carragon

Biography:

Patricia Carragon hosts Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. She edits the online journal, Sense & Sensibility Haiku. She received a 2025 Best of the Net nomination for her haiku, “Cherry Blossoms” from Poets Wear Prada. Her latest novel is Angel Fire (Alien Buddha Press, 2020). Her books from Poets Wear Prada are Meowku (2019) and The Cupcake Chronicles (2017). Her book Innocence was published by Finishing Line Press (2017). Her book of jazz poetry, Stranger on the Shore, was accepted by Human Error Publishing for publication later this year.

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Backstory:

Growing up in a toxic household, having no friends, not fitting in with the expectations of being female, and facing constant bullying from the teachers and students, I wanted to die. Five attempts since the age of nine through my early adulthood. Growing up, people who committed suicide were crazy and selfish. Suicide was a sin. Suicide was a taboo subject. I was taught to accept and never complain because I was responsible for what would happen. My mother would say being angry would make me less attractive. Why the suicide attempts beyond childhood? Never getting the jobs I wanted, no matter how hard I tried. Being ignored by prospective dates— the no-shows, the no-calls. Expensive outfits that hung in my closet until they went out of style and I grew three sizes larger. Due to peer pressure, I traveled solo and wasted my money on trips. I returned friendless and without a date. Being asexual. Becoming a pariah at work. The outsider who became a caregiver to her mother. Why am I still alive after facing abandonment, ridicule, abuse, unemployment, and financial woes? I found my calling by rejecting the expectations built by capitalism, the patriarchy, and classism through my writing. The only thing I had going for me was being born white. The reason I wrote this poem was to address how female victims of suicide have valid reasons to leave a toxic world. People should stop labeling anyone who commits suicide as crazy and selfish. Who are you to judge if you have never walked in their shoes? Life is not a gift when the system treats you like garbage. I will not be silent. Things must change. Time is ticking, and too many innocent lives are at stake, especially with this new administration. I was lucky to find my calling in this toxic world. Not everyone is.

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Suicide

She took her own life because she had no value.

Her mother would criticize her for bad grades and sloppy penmanship,
even for not liking dolls and dresses.
Her father needed extra comfort and told her to keep it quiet . . . or else.
Her hair, body, and clothes became a schoolyard joke,
and the teacher hid behind blinders and earplugs.
Her college degree—an expensive paper paid by a bank loan—
a high price for not fitting in with company culture—
she never did get that promotion.
Her date slipped something into her drink—
she woke up in an alley with
clothes ripped, her vagina bleeding—
the blame would be hers, not his.
Her first miscarriage led to another and another,
or did the rumors of infertility make her feel less than a woman?
Her husband grew tired of her, divorced her, took the boys and house as well—
the job market, more dismal after staying home to raise the kids.
Her cancer ate her breasts and uterus—
still hungry, it spread to her intestines.
Her attempts to rebuild her life backfired, even her talents went astray—
her only accomplishment was poverty.
Her face, invisible since puberty, became her road map to nowhere,
and love couldn’t find her, or did it forget her name?
Her golden years, a list of losses to outnumber her age,
but not the pills she had to take.

The list could go on—the reason was hers, not ours.

Her silent screams were real, and we never paid attention,
because suicide is a dirty word in an even dirtier world.

Who are we to judge and toss the first stone,
when she is now free and no longer in pain.

© 2025 Patricia Carragon