I write poetry when the mood takes me, and since I have depression, that mood is usually pretty sad, angry, or despairing.
A distressing number of them revolve around self harm.
This is far from the worst of those ones.
The worst seems like a charming little stanza, right up until the last line. I find it jarring, and I'm the one who wrote it.
I feel like this one, in contrast, is an accurate picture of how I felt at that moment in time.
Hence the title.
Knives in the drawer
Pills on the table
Sitting at the kitchen island
And oh so tired