Fergus Michael Condron
Let Me Be Your Own True Suicide
And what shall you tell them love? That we were bonded like a hand in a glove, that your love was open and honest and true? No glove left on a bench? Fingers battered and blue?
And when they shall ask of how much did you care, will you point to dark reason and meet with it there? Shall you look in their eyes and cry with distain, will you scream to high heaven that I caused you this pain?
Will you touch my sweet coffin and then shed a tear? Or to appease the relations all standing so near, then back at the house as they say I was a fine chap, will you be on your mobile to the guy out the back.
Remember the days I would recite poems, you said I was soulful, like Sassoon or Will Owen, can you imagine then how my heart filled with dread, when your drunken friends told me how you would rather be dead, then listen to me and my poetry lines, so a final decision was alone then, just mine.
Will the love that you thunder on this very night, me still warm in the coffin and yet I have site, as you tumble and fumble beneath the dark sheets, take a look from your window, down to the dark streets.
Remember the loving on laminated flooring, you said I was great, told my best friends I was boring, I brought you flowers and teddies and wine, took you to theatres
tickets bought with long hours overtime.
I would cuddle you close on dark winter night's, kept you safe from the monster's, the ghouls and the sprite's, I should have been warned of your deep appetite, for the strangers that beckon on overtime nights.
A brown little box found under the bed, you shiver and tremble and open with dread, for their deep within are these thoughts set aside, my very last poem as your own true suicide.
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