This is my sort of suicide letter.
I am letting you know that
you may not understand
but tonight I am going to die man.

I am tired of being dried
by the blood crusted black water
that rushes like a river
right over the heart of my hopeful soul.

Tonight I’m killing that angry *******
who despises me more than anyone
but in hating me he has loved me
cause hate is so much better than apathy.

At least that barbed wired *******
acknowledges me as worthy
of some sort of recognition.

So, I stare into the dark mirror painting of my life.
I smile as my reflection snarls,
“I am going to **** you, you *******.”

This is my sort of suicide letter.
I used my blood to write it,
took my reflection to task,
broke the glass into a hundred
jagged pieces
hoping I wouldn’t have to look at me,
but each fragment stared back you see
a sick distorted version of the person
I wanted to ****.

So, I took the most convenient shard,
then scratched a map straight to my heart
and as tiny tributaries flow away from
my cold and soon to be numb body
I smile greedily painting my poetry
in small lines of red that I hope will be read
when I am finally dead.

So, this is my sort of suicide letter.
I wrote it all in my head.
You will never really read it,
but I can see it perfectly
every night before I go to bed.