My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.