Excerpts from The Suicide Tourist by Myna Wallin

Two Poems from The Suicide Tourist for Poetry Month

Mania

I could power the city’s
electrical grid with my personal dynamism.
I am awake, present, ferociously excited,
fascinated by everything. 

Mania sneaks up on me like Tequila.
You’re Maria in The Sound of Music, twirling.

The idea that sleeping is a waste 
creeps in. You are fully dressed, 
wearing galoshes, crumpled on a chair 
in front of the droning TV, absorbing the sunrise.

Muddled, you can’t sleep, not even 
By the TV not even a catnap—
you’re in deep space

now. You call your boyfriend, 3 AM
Do you want to break up with me?

Somebody is moving and hiding things
in your home, creating piles of detritus, unpaid
bills, medication. A sprite 
hides your drink between sips.

You tumble through weeks 
until self-preservation finally makes 
an appearance. When you see 

constant alarm on loved one’s faces,
fearful for your cognition. 

Once the chaotic energy has wrung 
you dry, a weird clarity 
emerges.  Shaking a fist 
at a careless God. 

In Session

1
The Troll, side-burned, pasty,
pinned me onto 1970s floor pillows
with his stubby legs, hairy arms, fetid

breath instructing me to primal 
scream. “Set me free! Leave me alone!”
I shouted till I was hoarse and worse,

felt unclean, violated.

2.
The Runway Model had pointy red talons,
swanned into appointments in black wool cape
and knee-high red boots, trailing a sweet perfume.

Her eyebrows replaced with light hand-drawn crescents.
Once, while I cried loudly and profusely,
she called the lobby pharmacy to bring something

soothing immediately. She didn’t like demonstrations
of grief, tried to dampen my depression 
with her soft voice. She employed 
her script pad with quiet enthusiasm.

Once she invited me to her pristine home,
marble, beige, with hallways of happy family photos —
and asked me not to talk about my problems. 

This is a visit not a session. Many years later
I spotted her at a restaurant, pencilled eyebrows intact,
she had no recollection who I was.


3.
The Freudian had piercing blue eyes,
a large balding head, sucked his pencil eraser, 
and wriggled his seated groin, in gross flirtation.
He was a smug bastard, a fan of rules, 
had me sign a form stating I wouldn’t deal 
my prescription drugs on the street.

Thin-skinned, furious when I insulted:
“Did you get your diploma 
in a box of Crackerjacks?”

His notes from our last session whitewashed,
no mention of his ending our trysts like a guilty husband
or of me screaming that I was quitting him.

Years later, he had emotional struggles, 
and a serious breakdown of his own. I admit to
a delirious, delicious rush of Schadenfreude.

About the Author

Myna Wallin, a Toronto-born poet, was published in Antigonish Review, Vallum Magazine, Soliloquies Anthology, League of Canadian Poets’ chapbook On the Storm/In the Struggle, Event Magazine, and the Literary Review of Canada, among many others. Anatomy of An Injury, her third book, was published by Inanna Publications in 2018. Wallin was longlisted for the 2022 Nick Blatchford Occasional Verse Contest. She received an honourable mention in Esoterica’s Inaugural Fiction Contest, 2023. Her fourth book, The Suicide Tourist was published in 2024 by Ekstasis Editions. Wallin received her MA in English Literature from the University of Toronto.

Book Details

• Ekstasis Editions

• ISBN 978-1-77171-546-1

• Poetry

• 95 Pages