Reflections On a Suicide Note
Where does the writing become illegible?
I cannot reconstruct the thought I have tried to compose in ink.
They bend the pages
They are not quite so simple as you might think.
So I find a pen in this unsteady hand
A hand writing for a mind plagued by confusion,
A mind confused by its own construction,
An affected constructed that plays on its ailments and its cures
And can't decide which poisons it more.
Can you tell where the drugs set in and the urgency faded into a hum?
And the words wrote themselves as though I were dead or maybe just numb.
And its empty,
Its all wrong,
It lacks depth.
And so I cry out
What is this life to me but what it does to my insides?
Oh Elliot!
I measure this life in weight, in wrinkles, in scars and sometimes broken ink.
I mix our blood and write in its memory,
intimacy.
If I effectively filled a vile with a memory
It might satiate some quilled desire to purge.
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