Close Call

about survival, suicidal ideation, the pause that saved you.

Series: Please Stay Alive
IV. close calls and comebacks

the pills looked like sleep.
they were just sitting there,
lined up in the drawer—
innocent.
ordinary.
not weapons.
just sleep in disguise.

i looked at them
and didn’t feel fear.
just relief.
at the thought of finally
not having to try.

it wasn’t a cry for help.
it was a whisper to the void:
“i’m tired in a way rest doesn’t fix.”

i didn’t want to die.
i just didn’t want to keep living like this—
skin too loud.
mind too full.
the world like sandpaper
against my nerves.

and for a moment,
the pills looked like a way
to make it stop.
quietly.
cleanly.
without explanation.

but something shifted.
maybe a noise outside.
maybe a memory.
maybe the thought
that my cat still needed to eat.
or that there was still tea in the kettle.
and i didn’t want to leave it cold.

i put the bottle back.
slow,
like it might explode.

and i sat on the floor
with my whole life
still inside me.

---

please stay alive.

because even when the exit looks easy,
your life is not meant to end in silence.
the exhaustion is real—
but so is the fact that you paused.
that something in you still wanted
one more second.

stay because that second matters.
stay because what you need
isn’t death.
it’s peace.
and that can still be yours.

one day,
the pills will just look like medicine again.
one day,
you’ll sleep
without needing escape.

stay alive
until rest feels safe.

stay,
because even in that moment,
you chose life.
and that
means everything.

---

This is for the ones who made it through nights they swore they wouldn’t survive.
For the ones who saved themselves in ways no one saw.

To the ones who wrote the note but never sent it.
Who planned it out down to the hour, the method, the goodbye—
and then didn’t.
To the ones who flushed the pills,
cried on the bathroom floor,
took the call,
fed the cat,
breathed once more and chose,
somehow,
to stay.

No one claps for that moment.
But I do.
This is for the almosts.
For the ones who came back from the edge with nothing but a pulse and a whisper of a reason.

This is for you.
You are still here.
And that means everything.

---

About “Please Stay Alive” Series:
This section doesn’t pretend it was easy.
These poems are the shaking hands
the quiet bargains
the near-fatal silence that somehow broke.

You didn’t stay alive because it got better. You stayed alive because something inside you—
even if it was small and shaking—
refused to go.

Maybe it was a friend. A nurse. A song. A cat. A voice you couldn’t name. These are not stories of healing. These are stories of interruption. Of near-deaths that turned into near-lives. Of collapse that became continuation.

You don’t have to be grateful it happened.
You just get to be here.
Still.

All content, including poem, title, and accompanying text, is © Solena Vyhra, 2025. All rights reserved.
Do not copy, reproduce, repost, or use without explicit written permission.
This poem is part of the series: “Please Stay Alive” — a poetic archive of near-deaths, interrupted endings, and the quiet rebellions that kept us breathing.