Calling For Help. Poem by Ayesha Tulkubra

I taste blood in my throat and weight on my heart.
The air enslaved in my lungs and its hard to discard.
The ribs clinch so tightly, I fear they might shatter.
Like a mirror crashing in to splinters.
I see veins bulging under my skin.
Still blood runs in them, I imagine.
The hands are rough, I wonder if they ever bluffed?
Pain shots in the left arm, I expect a heart attack so warm.
But I wish to die die between flowers in the farm.
I flirt with death and it causes me no harm.
Once suffocated myself, twice degraded, hated it all along.
It is said suicide is way too wrong.
Sweet bells ring in my head causing acidic intellect.
Might save the soul, any religion, any sect.
The faces I see when it gets so dark.
The lies I never speak so truth makes me weak.
I visualize myself falling from stairs and ask 'who cares? '
Then I hear their voices from far behind.
I pack up my bags and clocks I wind.
Pick up my torn pieces from a memory lane.
Try to catch some sleep so I may start again.