Little suicide notes were written between the colors and brush strokes in the irises of her eyes.  Some short, some long, some almost never ending, and some simply only said goodbye.  Some warm and well crafted with just a dash of despair.  Others cold and cruel crammed with complaints and self loathing.  Some written by her own hand, others memorized from books and films and authors unknown.  Beautiful maladies of the outrageous fashion of lifeless death after death.  She too often wondered is it really suicide when someone is already dead inside?

Even with the glazed over dreams of death that swam in the deep black of her pupils, her smile still had an innocent charm.  A perfect balance of teeth and lips and soft pink flesh.  There was an eager patience in the tremble and quiver waiting in the promise of her kiss.  It wasn't of wanting or longing but the simple passion of knowing each  moment of pressing and locking and pressure brought her closer to her final breath.  She wasn't interested in the luxury of suicide, its flashy pearl whites or final big bang... she wanted to know the intimacy of the unknown, the brief warm flush of the infinite end of the love and despair of life.  To discover the kindness or cruelty of whats next.  Too often she pondered why does she see much more beauty in death than in life or love.

She smiled, some days... and it was a warm and inviting smile, beautiful in its own graceful way.  Thats how I remember it.  All I can see now, shining up through the dirt and her grave, is one last note painted in her dead eyes.