the first time i met suicide, i was alarmed at how smooth his voice was
the loudness of a fire alarm and the softness of a mother whispering to a child
all at once
it was exhilarating
and in my mind it played constantly
i was unable to shut him out because i craved the way his voice touched me.
it had a body of its own and i crushed beneath its arms
the way suicide said my name made it feel unspoken
and he twisted his words, tugging and pulling
until there was nothing left i could do to untangle myself from within them
he made even the word death seem stunning

and his hands
they grasped my neck like a noose and took my breath away
his fingers grazed over my scars and made them feel lovely
the more i created, a small blade grazing against my inner thigh,
the more suicide fell in love with me
and deeper and deeper he fell
his strong hands held no calluses yet they weakened every time he hit me.
he painted me in light purples and deep reds.
i let him work wonders out of me.
and when he led me into the water to cleanse me,
our intertwined hands fell perfectly in place and i couldn't let go,
allowing the water to drench every inch of me.

each time i faced suicide,
he came up with different ways to convince me
that my life was something that needed to be destroyed
as if i was at a winning war with it; a nuclear bomb ticking away, seconds from explosion

he lit my mind on fire and burned thoughts into my skull.
he made my mind work backwards.
as if pills were the most delicious candy.
as if a noose was an expensive, fragile necklace.
as if my clothes could only be worn with thick bloodstains

the last time i met with suicide,
i gazed into his light green eyes
and he put me to sleep with his alluring voice
as i held his hand tightly at my resting heart.
and i loved
every
last
second
of it.