Nature fashioned
a thorny crown
to cut my scalp
and bleed me dry,
leaving me to decide
if I should cry
or try to write
my suicide note.

There was no lover to
pull me from the sea,
or make anything
mean anything.
So, I was just floating,
tears and snot soaking
this body choking
on bitter salt truths.

There was no fire
to keep me warm.
So my digits,
and heart went frigid,
and that rhythm
that was given
to the living,
I no longer missed it.

The sun disappeared
and when the clouds cleared
even the moon had skipped town.
The tides came and went
pushing me out,
and pulling me back in again,
but I was already too dead
to drown.

The husk they found
was a terrible art display
of a soul fried and flayed
till it up and flew away
to smoke itself and disintegrate.