I sat there vomiting words like it would save me.
Nothing could.
The vultures came in record time, picking away at the cells that
I thought could protect me, turning me into a skeleton.
I would dance for the people, making my bones clink like china.
The shackles jingling around my ankles like Christmas bells.
I would destroy myself to meet their ideals.

In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,
And pain has exhausted every limb—
  The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name—
  The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and child forsake the dead—
  The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small—
  But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

let's just call this a suicide note

                  because that's
           what it should be.

If I was still who I
           was
                          a month ago

then there would be
     slits up this wrist
and an empty bottle in
       this fist

But instead I can
appreciate
                    that I don't
have more scars.