My friend tells me that each morning she awakens with suicide and coffee on her mind, then she has a smoke. I want to tell her how my mind entirely bypasses the coffee - how suicide is the first thought, second thought, all day and night thought. I want to tell her that if I must stay, a simple razor blade will do... criss-crossing over old scars, gashes just deep enough to bleed out the pain, or awaken the senses and escape numbness. I want to see my blood trickling down, down, down my thighs or arms like red rivers creating their own pathway through my white valleys of flesh. But instead, I sit silently, coffee in hand, swallowing her pain as I stifle my own.
All poetry under the names Lori Carlson or Iona Nerissa are the sole property of Lori Carlson. Please seek permission before using any of my writings. ~Lori Carlson~