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.