Her eyes told a different story
Than her worn hands.
Loving all who understand.
And the sore indentation on the middle finger of her right hand
Supporting that she knew words were essential.
Proving that the messy explosion on the paper
Was not the leaking pen.
But the beautiful ideas in her mind.
At this point, there are two ways to go.
Pull the trigger, skip the breath.
Swallow the pills
Heading towards death or
Eating the meal and waiting.
Waiting to approach the end of this dark endeavor.
She chooses the second,
picking up the pen and scattering her memory
Into the compilation of uneven papers.