“Do you have thoughts of harming yourself?”

with thanks to Joel, Shelby, Kim, and Hiwot 
for their care 

“Harmed, what is left 
but our belief in future harm?” 
 —Cassandra J. Bruner 

The ER nurse asks me if I want to harm 
myself. I am honest. Honestly, I did not plan 
to spend the day in a hospital. Though I 
did. Brought a backpack just in case. 
I tell them that, as a kid, I had to see 
a cardiologist, yearly. My big, leaky heart 

up on the screen. I grew into my heart, 
though. The hole closed. I think it’s harmless 
now. More questions. Then time to see 
the PA. She asks me if I have a plan 
to kill myself. A day in mind, if I 
have picked a method. Says my case 

will be evaluated by a psychiatrist. In case 
I need to stay. If I’m not safe. My heart 
rate is checked again, breath, pressure. I’m 
asked by the psychiatrist if I want to harm 
myself. How. When. Do I have a plan 
for committing, if so I should be committed, see

a second psychiatrist. Will also be seen 
by another doctor. She builds a compelling case. 
I agree to stay. To work on a plan 
toward recovery. She spoke like a heart-to-heart. 

Upstairs the nurse asks if I want to harm 
myself. They station someone at the door, in case I 

try something. The doctor asks if I 
want to harm myself. Except the bathroom, they see
my every move, so that I don’t harm 
myself. 

  I interject: 

  I ask when the psychiatrist plans
to see me. They aren’t sure. The new nurse asks 
if I want to harm myself. The doctor asked how long I’d
wanted to harm myself. Do I still want to die? 

Do I still feel like— … have feelings of— 
Do I want to— How long have I wanted to— 
I say I say I can’t keep repeating 

this conversation, this is the sixth time 
today. I’m told it’s to keep me 
safe. I do not feel safe. I say 
it doesn’t make me feel safe.

There’s always someone watching 
at the door. The next nurse says 
I know you don’t want to talk 
about this, but— 

When I take 
a shit they knock to check on me. To make sure
I’m not— 
to make sure I’m safe. 

All the while I’m hoping 
this hospital is on my insurance 
plan. I stayed because I wanted 
to but not because I wanted to. 
The new psychiatrist asks 
about me wanting to harm 
myself. About how I’ve wanted 
to die. Do I feel 
that way now, did I have 
a plan, if I go home 
will I be safe, be safe, 
not harm 
myself. Be safe. Someone 
keeps watch from outside the door. 
The psychiatrist asks 
if I have access 
to a gun but not if I have access 
to a support system. I tell him 
it’s not that I want 
to die
it’s more like I’m not sure I want 
to live. The distinction 
feels important. We talk and I’m in a gown 
I can’t get to stay closed in the back, 
unable to turn my head 
because of how I slept in this bed 
while locked alone in this room like a safe. 

I imagine a safe place for my now-healthy heart to beat without a plan,
where I can un-language the harm and set it in a safe-locked case,
a physical place where I can see it, can kill it, where I 

am not a checklist of answers— 

They use 
my birthday to confirm it’s me, 
ask me if I know 
where I am 
when the meds make me fuzzy. They want 
me to be safe. I only remember 
one person calling me 
my name.

---

Marlin M. Jenkins (@MMicahJenkins) was born and raised in Detroit and currently lives in Minnesota. The author of the poetry chapbook Capable Monsters (Bull City Press, 2020) and a graduate of University of Michigan’s MFA program, his work has found homes with Indiana Review, The Rumpus, Waxwing, and Kenyon Review Online, among others. You can find him online at marlinmjenkins.com.