writing, the slowest style of suicide,
its only sociably acceptable form,
when i watch her crouched over
a paper and the ink running,
dripping down the page,
i see blood and tears,
i see someone swallowing poison
and the painful after effects
before sweet death calms the storm,
every line she makes on parchment
is a line made upon her wrist,
every period, dot and dash
is a back whipping, a lashing,
every space between stanzas
is a drowning breath,
every ending line
is a tighter choke on a noose,
but she's addicted
to feeling herself go,
addicted to the rush of death
and that sudden ***** like jolt
that soothes the body as it
swims in the bloodstream,
all her words are perfect
and i can't tell her to stop
though i witness
the withering away of it,
Not done yet.