I wonder what would
tempt to cut away the life in me.
To feel it rush out, spilling
onto the ground. To allow harm
to myself.
There is a sick churning in my
stomach at the thought,
a gnawing, nervous notion
that began as a silent prayer.
Would it be better to find some way,
painless, less messy?
But I know the truth of painless,
it would only be painless to me.
No speculation of a car running,
left in enclosed space,
fumes that lull you into
dreamless sleep.
And though my loved ones,
my family and friends,
close acquaintances, and others
may feel the eerie effects of what
was done, it is not
their tears that spare me.
To end my story seems such
a deep shame, I would swear
I’d never recover in the afterlife.
I’d swear it on my soul.