Still Counting

A hammer shatters the mirror and blood pools in the places punctured by the mirror's shards. Maybe the blood loss will make her lighter. 

140 to

135 to

104 still counting. 

90 lbs now but still sad - let's aim for 70.

White sheets and a reclining bed hold the defeated body, kept running only by the 1500 calorie tube meals. Still counting.

Now it's only the tube and the ghosts keeping her alive - everyone else left her body to rot as a corpse.

 

Still counting - because destroying the self is the only true salvation. Her butterflies are glued to the wall with the perfect nail-polish she uses to hide her yellowing skin. She's not in her terrarium anymore where she belongs but still counting. 

Count the bullets before you fire away but do not hesitatate - you'll puncture skin and bone but her blood runs gray. There will be no burst of color when the bullets enter.

Remember - rainbows are only beautiful because of their color - straks accross the sky are equally as depressing as tear-duct-derived raindrops.

Remeber, at the funeral, when you're sitting accross from her cadavre, do not feel guilty. You only lifted the gun to her chest because she did not have the strength to do it herself. To pass the time, and in her honor,

Count people.

Count chairs.

Count speeches.

Still counting.

 

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741