p i t t e r
               p a t t e r
                               f
                             a
                           l
                         l
                      s
the rain

drowning away all my pain

blurry music
fading smile

aching wrists
and blood stained tile

What would happen if when you came home.
I was sprawled on the floor.
With a bottle of pills in my stomach.
or
With a rope tightened around my throat.
or perhaps
Wrists cut deep,
Thick red all over your nice clean floor.
Because that would be your biggest concern.
Your freshly cleaned floor

**I hope it stains.

I find myself a worthy adversary
Though bruises wear my face
I find myself a challenge
A challenge, not a race
I have put up a **** good fight
And still I strive to win
But against myself, win I cannot
Suicide's an ironic sin

Fake smile
Dried eyes
Scratched wrists
Bruised thighs

White pills
Rope tied
Gun loaded
*Suicide