The Suicide Note.

It is a little tease,

Along with a little dread,

The sinking feeling that is, dying to be fed,

By the endless infernal hope and incessant need to be,

Sad and filled with sickness, by the black man who lingers,

He shall always calls to me.

Do not worry about him; for sure he is a friend,

Created by the host, whom shall be there to tend,

The open wounds, and ever lasting falls,

Like the hospital trip that began it all,

Began the crawling, as well as the crying,

The self-medicating and the endless hating.

It led to the liquor, and the endless amount of substance,

Which clung to her hands and lips, and from there, there was significant judgement,

Judgement because the woman was so sweetly clean,

Along with the kindness and vibrancy that had always been seen,

From the windows to her soul and the movements which dressed her heart,

But the honesty had started, to peel away the art,

The paint, which covered the rust and the sickening cuts,

As well as the bruises and the constant haircuts,

Which stripped away her identity, as well as what she once was,

Because the truth had been revealed, she was finally lost.

Lost with the comments and the voices inside her head,

As well as the pain that she wish she could have bled,

Bled for eternity, infinity and more,

Anything, which meant avoidance from the sensations she always wore,

Because the truth was, she wanted it to happen over a thousand times,

Anything, which meant escaping the treacherous climb,

To recovery, to a better you,

Like my 5 year old self dreamed off, before I came true.

I am not what I wish,

Nor am I what I see,

I’m the body of the nameless, buried beneath 10 feet,

Of the fairytales and castles that my mind had forged with time,

The dragons and power rangers, whom I wished to save my life.

But there were songs I had created, sung but were never heard,

However there now banished with the bodies, which had been destroyed by words.

Words, which strangled my being; throat, heart and more,

As well as the unknown who fell from the gallows because they struggled on with war,

No not the place, which held guns and blood,

But the place where your body lay, where your tears started to flood,

The room, which you sleep, the place where you dress,

The time you first had sex and uttered that small ‘yes’,

I do not have to avert my location, for I cannot go far,

But that does not bar me of my battles which are,

Placed within my bedroom, my bathroom and the stairs,

For these sometimes are as far as I have gotten,

But here I can share,

My secrets with the banister, where I place my head to rest,

The duvet that has surrounded me where I begin to make my nest,

Of descending tears, bruised bones and sharp objects alike,

But I must warn you,

My heaven doesn’t arrive with the introduction of twilight.

Although there is a man,

Who I can prove is real,

He sits in a chair opposite me,

And tries to get a sense of how I feel,

Through the mayhem, chaos and lack of forbearing,

I inhale another ragged breath,

And whisper to the walls that I’m hurting,

I ask him the question ‘How does any one really live?

Do we all lie to each other but in the end, hope we forgive?’

But the man doesn’t answer me, nor do his lids close,

He places his hand beneath his chin and his finger upon his nose,

Inhaling his own breath, I feel as if he is gone,

But he surprises me with a response

“Maybe life isn’t for every one.”