My suicide attempt was not the typical sin,
It involved no knife, no rope, but ink upon my skin.
As the pen moved along, the tan turned to blue,
My pores opened up and the ink flowed through.
It wasn't as straightforward as most death wishes may seem,
Because it started as a hobby, not a dark and morbid dream.
Yet the more the words and drawings had come running down my arm,
The more people had warned me that the markers would do harm.
Or "warnings"- so they thought- but once the thoughts had reached my mind,
I realized it was the most painless and easy escape that i could find.
So day by day, my poisoned skin prayed for the kiss of Death,
And the doodles followed me up until my final breath.