Escape Route

I'm going to sit in this room
with idle hands strapped wrist-to-wrist,
loosening the rope on this depression
God gave me to cling to in times of need.
Platelet by platelet,
the blood will start to clot,
singing lullabyes to my arms stretched so far behind,
And I'll close my eyes to dream of being back
in grandma's house,
watching "The Brave Little Toaster,"
as she told me stories of my mother's childhood,
while my head rested so tiredly in her lap.
I guess I'll have to eventually roll over
onto the hardwood floor,
littered with remnants of hopes in dreams
in the form of crushed charcoal bits and wads of paper.
Only then will I have learned what struggle really is ;
not the trails of blood on my best friends wrists
I gave her when she said she couldn't do it herself.
If only God grants me the blessing of falling
onto this back I only think is broken
will I be able to become a successful Houdini impersonator.