sundays are my suicide days

by suicidallyanonymous

In the pit of your stomach,
miracle pills dissolve
to consume your liver
like a vulture.
When you die,
they will pluck your eyebrows
and turn your eyelids
inside out.

You can stare at horror
in the face,
with crayon fingers
folded over
your canvas heart,
as it tears against
the ribs in your chest.

Pressed haphazardly
against the stagnant pulse
of yesterday’s summer,
brittle leaves
of a skyscraper tree
turn to muddy ash
when mixed
with the kiss of snow.


2 Comments to “sundays are my suicide days”

  1. We manage darkness by writing about it . . .

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