Suicidal Lifestyle

Not a cut but a slice of life that forces red fluid from the vein through great pains. Not a shot but a wound of winter that breaks slowly into another season of snow. Not a pill but an overdose of little endeavors entering into psyche skewing the skylines into animated grave stones. Not a rope but a pen that types shapes onto screens unseen by dark masses in classes of engraving on grey clouds.

Clouds fly into rock formations that spell names with dates. The dates are remembered and celebrated with tears that carve through makeup on cheeks. What a unique party. I was invited by me. I am not going. My name is spelled across the grey sky with red ink and black letters. I see the date. It is today. Today I celebrate with tears.

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