My Most Recent Death
There’s no suicide
that can kill me worse
than what’s already been done.
My heart has turned to dust
and blown away in the winter wind
and I’m left with barren branches,
sharp, dark, and twisted,
gnarled black arms and legs,
insides infested
with the vermin of loneliness
feasting on whatever organs they can find.
I’ve fallen
and have very little bone or muscle left.
I’m just waiting for the flames of the incinerator
to torch whatever’s left,
leaving only ashes
and maybe a single ember
ready to ignite some sort of rebirth.
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