Terminal

Midnight wanes soft and dark. We retreating to our separate towers. Too tall.

No downstairs. Just up. And up.

Sound carried away. Every scream. Every whisper taken. Like animal skins peeled from.

The red still on the blade. The cry still in the air.

Limp bodies convulsing. As reality slowly apprehends.

Maybe I wanted to die. Sure. I did. And it shouldn't even be my responsibility. I didn't give myself life. Why should I have to remove it.

Maybe the hard way just seemed easier then. Slide down the mountain instead of trying to climb it.

Maybe I don't want to die. I just don't want to live. Wrestling every grin from between those menstrual thighs.

Isn't it enough to be born once. How many times must it happen before I can live.

Whatever your age. The thinnest skin is on the hands.

Everything you feel with them so intense.

There are not nearly enough cures for the disease that life is.

We'll never know. Never touch anything but the space between us.

Days falling like raindrops. None caught.

Cupped hands waiting for the sky to offer.

The promise is in the lie. If you can believe it.

Take it.

And be reborn vein by vein. This our blood sweetens. Everything else. This empty skin welcomes the prick of the needle as it delivers sanity again.