Poem · Poetry · Suicide · Writing

Venomous Words, Vexatious Thoughts

A lingering hand on the blade, a few more pills in her palm,
The storm continues to rage as she craves for some peace and calm.

A hand grazes over a black trigger, circling her fingers across the icy rim,
In another she holds up a glass, with black liquid filled up to the brim.

Ways to die have overborne the will to live,
She has fought for so long with all that she had to give.

No one hears a sound as the bathroom echoes with her helpless cry,
Weak and cold, the only option remained is to die.

A trail of blood trickles slowly down her bony wrist,
Light fades into darkness, surrounding her in a blackened mist.

She no longer fears and reaches for the gun,
Pills, glass, and all, she takes it in one by one.

The life she never seemed to have exudes out of her in despair,
No refunds, no exchanges; she was damaged beyond repair.

A queer aura surrounds her, as she lets her eye lids flutter close.
Her devices slip out of her hand, she’s had enough of life’s dose.

Hoping she could have been strong enough to fight her battles, a droplet seeps out of her eye,
She has been turned down and locked away for too long, it was time to say goodbye.

Soon only her body remains, as she moves on, letting go of all her fears,
The last thing lingering on her mind was, would someone care enough to shed some tears.

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