the silver blade hangs above my neck,
tip to apple, edge to skin.
as another assault accosts me -
I savour the bleed, for one rarely
tastes life itself.

and yet even as I hang
in the balance, my lungs refuse to give,
I groan bubbles and moan smoke,
a sputtering engine doused in oil.
I drown in soap, a futile attempt
to finally be clean.

but even bleach blunders a bloodstain,
and one cannot erase what never was, nor
what always was. I drain myself into the gulley,
if I cannot leave, I shall at least escape.

yet I am stuck in the pipes, tidal motion
flushes me with poison, a final notion.
as death courses through my veins,
and I can no longer rhyme
as I run out of time,
it seems that one
cannot simply
choose to
die.