It’s my fault. I let the sinister engrave
That flesh pure as silver, fresh as spring blooms
A gift aforementioned by butchers and preachers to keep
Protected through times of lust and heartache
That crave touch not scientifically possible
Mortal luxury that slips in unnoticed
The prick of fairy tales on paper, buried in the codex
Poisoned reality. It was bled for.
But blackened clouds bear down, sealing in the destruction
To ravage any solace of pride left standing.
To forget would be merciful, but I don’t forget.
I lie down and let the desperation pour over me
Hardening the pressure on my lungs.
I let the cement shame pour down my throat
And welcome its strangling relief. Just a few more minutes now.
I love the peaceful anticipation.
Sound comes first, soft whispers surround you almost like it’s coming from within.
Then comes the rustling of leaves high up in the canopy.
The anticipation builds.
Finally, like the woodlands orchestra finale, the cool autumn breeze.
Moving through the pines slower than I can take.
It moves over me space at a time, trailing its cool caress across my warm skin.
Leaves swirl around my bare ankles, filling my lungs with autumn.
Fresh scents cloud my head as I try to pace my intake.
My soul alive in this moment.
I wonder more and more what it would be like
To end it. My feet wouldn’t be ice cold.
I wouldn’t worry about it.
About anything. There would be no change;
I wouldn’t have to leave them
Behind or wonder about what lies ahead.
It would hurt them, but I wouldn’t know. Maybe
That’s selfish, but it hurts so much
To feel so deeply.
To agonize over why it has to always be so happy
Or so devastating.
Blinding color or charcoal fog. I wouldn’t have to
Wonder what it would be like,
Because it would be over.
I would be gone.