You ache, skin first–
a splinter.
The wound (a wound is always
what it becomes,
then deepens.
Later relief, but
permanence is fleeting.

You contemplate all options.

Each of them.

You stare fearfully into the void.
You wonder if it stares back.

Death is not life’s opposite.
But sometimes it is for you.

A momentary reprieve, you feel the
Sweet burn of Sun, and it feels right.
But the burn begins to ache
and it lingers.

It always lingers.
The ache is always bone deep.

It festers and you think they smell it.
They will know.

You want the ache, you do.
Sometimes you want nothing,
but you want the ache more.
The ache is something and in spite of everything
In spite of this you know it

and it is better than not knowing.

You consider suicide.
Not so that you don’t feel…
you will
feel something else.

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