just another suicide poem

you don’t want to read this.
untethered and still in tangles, some words
should only ever be sung at song’s end.
for some hurts, there are no words.
here. put your finger just…
here. where it pulses.

feel the slow.
red-black, it giggles
as it drips from skin to
brick-l(e)aden sheets.
you don’t want (anyone)
to read this.

they’ll take away your shoelaces,
your plastic knives.
but then, what’s a razorblade
when all you need
is the will to stop

for some pain,
there is no air.
i know these things,
the giddiness of a dripping
pulse. trust me, i’m
a doctor.

here. they’ll take away
your shoelaces
and you’ll walk barefoot,
without dignity.
but they won’t let you
leave. you’ll walk hobbled,

in small circles,
like poetry.
your story
on some stage far from here,

another bleeder.
here. as it gushes.
trust me, i’m
a poet. feel the slow,
the red-black breath
of forever

a single, beaten tomorrow
that will never
be yours again.
read barefoot,
how it gushed

(in the end),
how they wouldn’t
let you leave.
broken, the whole world
will applaud, crying in the end (;)
you don’t want to read this.

glancing over my shoulder

there’s a small blonde girl

sitting in the window

on the third story, her legs

kicking the old brick

haphazardly as they dangle.


from here

she looks insignificant,

an oversized old grey

sweatshirt all but swallowing

everything but the randomness

and those legs.


maybe she’s thinking of jumping,

headfirst onto pavement;

sure it’d be a clean dive

if angled properly.

maybe because she was dying

already, from the stale haste

of her daily perceptions,

flat-lined perspectives

and want of fresh air.



maybe, from above,

just sitting on the edge could be,

would have to be,