Suicide In Three Parts

Part one: Clock

Time; you’ve been on
my shoulder all my life – and you’re
blowing kisses and reminders into my
ear. But you’re a waste of space, nothing
trustworthy, a modern method of distorting
life and death. The clock on the wall enthrals
me - alone with time, the minutes fall into disrepute.

Part two: Twenty-one

Twenty-one and I’m not thinking anymore -
life and love and fairy-floss, just a smattering of
goodwill. The years pass without optimism –
prison guards and sickness stalk the crevices
of my mind. Maybe it’s not affection, we’re just starved
for attention and I don’t know if it’s love or
desperation.

Four years down, and the scent of
food and acid hitting porcelain masks
the familiar laughter. The television blares
through window and rain batters heads and
rooftops – obliviously, I wander through
the garden. Alone amongst the leaves, the
soil, and the storm washes life away.

Part three: Tomb

It’s the taste in my mouth, it’s the look
in your eyes. It’s the disgust filling
the minds of onlookers and it’s the
acid that fills the streets. And maybe
someday I can leave you behind, and
you’ll forget the narcissism of suicide.
But let us hide behind masks of security
and pretend that our minds are free of
despair. I’d encourage your smiles
and the laughs, because I’m not here
for me.