Ode to Suicide


Write in prose, and people worry.
Write a poem, it’s merely expression.
So I’ll write in prose-thinly-disguised-as-poetry
Give it some rhythm, give it some form.
It’s the best I can do.

Here is a blade,
a bottle of poison,
a gun.

Well-
since I have neither poison nor gun
I guess the blade is my weapon of choice.

A gun is too loud,
too sudden, too quick.
And also too messy and gory.
Out of control, angry and wild.

Poison is too subtle,
too hidden, too covert.
It makes me think of my bout with food poisoning:
A piercing pain
On the inside beyond reach,
Beyond control and ambushing;

A blade is neither of those.
A blade is silent;
the sounds of slicing
only in your mind.
With a blade you have control
Of a sharp, scraping, surface pain;
The kind I like.
A blade offers the luxury of time
in the way it takes:
Seeping, draining
leaking, fading.
Gradual

And yet
all these pain are but a mere cover up for another
the kind that eats you alive from the inside
and takes your life even if you don’t.

Written on the 3rd of December 2011

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