It would have been easy to end it all
with a knife or a fall
from a very tall tower block,
to blot it all out and escape,to
reach out and outguess my fate
of which this was not.

The plot thickens and my pace
quickens as the story goes on,
'what happened to John?'

Turning the page on an internal rage
that is never defined,
I find words that can soothe me,
whole paragraphs smooth over the cracks.

I am armoured,
attack if you like.
I am warrior at war
molten to the core
standing my ground while the world
shifts around me.

There's always a suicide inside me
I know that a bit,
and the knowing is the
beating of it.