pain is a pistol to the head, loneliness
like a knife at the wrist. a sad
handful of pills poised
to still the swirling
thoughts feelings swallowed.
a noose to end the nonsense
above the neck. feelings
are constant, live
drownings bottomless, endless
burning fire.
how easy it would be, slipping
silently away. as i do.
as suicide is this suffering, these
sleepless dreams, smoked drinks
solitary, missed meals
anxious and nauseous. a suicide
not so sudden, more
subtle and sentimental.
how easily i watch myself
slipping away. returning
for more.
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