A Short Story About Killing Myself Poem by Christopher's Dead

Seen the cut surrounded by dry blood. Must have irritated it through the crashing all around me. Wipe it dry, clean, but where’s the fun in that. Avoid exacerbation yet still suffer in excess.

Why not make the pain, the sorrow poor out, hopefully there won’t be anything left inside. Gripping tightly, stab the wound over my heart back open; rip back quickly to greater irritate the skin.

And watch the blood poor forth, slowly; and watch as it runs off the skin into the cracks and crevices of joints and muscle, fold of skin, like a stream lips over a bed of rocks on the shallow ground. But wish it was more like a waterfall, crashing, deafening sounds if you get close enough.

Now sit back, feel the pain overcoming; not a pain from the wound, but a pain from inside. As all muscles tense, the body becomes rigid. Somewhere inside, stomach churns, as it sweetly burns throughout, as the heart let blood free out of veins and arteries. It becomes warm, yet hurts like a sore from overwork.

And blink once, twice, not sure what’s happening now. All light in the visible spectrum of the eye disappearing as the contrast greatens: all darks become darker, all lights become lighter. And until these all blur, it’s not black, but it is surely the absence of all color.

Fear I may have made a mistake. And hearing too. The sounds so crisp before grow higher and higher to their piercing frequency of which my ears cannot comprehend. Now lost, just a muffled drone; even my own voice has lost volume.

Yet I knew the answer all along and avoid it, just let this of what I could not have foreseen overcome me in my grief. This isn’t what I wanted, not what anyone wanted.

PLEASE DON’T MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES. DO NOT KILL YOURSELF. EVEN WHEN I AM GONE, I’LL KNOW I MADE THE WRONG CHOICE.