I stare at my signature,
the gentle loops and flourishes. Trace
my finger over the soft O's and I’s.

I wonder if my pain is written there,
all the frustration and anguish
of my 51 years,
the rare, ineffable moments
of pure magic and joy.

I search the delicate skin of my wrists
for signs. Faint, hesitant scars
where I once tried to die.

The doctor asks for the clipboard.
I hand it to him
and smile.