Terminal Diseases

her voice pencil marks. the silence ink. suicide is a long process. of learning how to want. crumbling corners discover dying in all kinds of places.

the poison is rarely what kills. though it's taken every day. it's happiness that talks her off that ledge.

small boxes stew in the shadows. as hollow as they are. there's something inside them.

the end comes in whispers. everything else screams. but it's the angles that are often overlooked. they change the distance. they wrinkle the map in places no one can see.

it rains when she listens. it snows when she weeps. everything is her. yet she is nothing.

it's only ugly because they say it is. bruises in the bridge. and so much ocean to cross. drowning in the cold math of touch. she doesn't come up for air.

we live for seconds. we die for years.