Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
My death from the wrists, two name tags, blood worn like a corsage to bloom one on the left and one on the right.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.