, , , , , , , , ,

I can let the words sink in

Like salt to my wounds.


I can think of my grave

That lies five feet below the ground.


I can hold the poison in my hand

To sniff and nearly swallow.


I can dissolve myself into numbness

To never feel again.


I can sit alone in paralysis

Consumed within solitary and sorrow.


I can grasp the blade between my fingers

Prepared to produce mutilation to my soul.


But I cannot bring myself to fate.