Looking at the floor

Glistening mirror

Reflection

On a surface

Of crimson.

Wipe it away.

Allow his mind

Wander and ramble

Anything

To keep the insane reality

Stave the insanity

Off

Away.

Scent of blood

Notes of metal

Severely disturbing

Provoking.

Damp cloth

Soaking in

Like a paintbrush

Dipped

In blood red.

Rinse.

Squeeze.

Repeat.

Terribly fucked up predicament.

Even that was an understatement.

His arms

Shivering

Hands

Trembling

But not from fear

Nor grief

But from exhaustion

Tempered with frustration.

The stench of alcohol

Brought

If little

Solace

Keep away

An even more

Repulsive odor.

Water

Progressively

Taking on

Reddish pallor

Rags and towels

Filthy

Deathly.

To the naked eye

He would seem

Remotely

Calm.

Truth be told

He too

On the razor edge.

Meticulously

Picking up

A dreadful object

With caution

Inspecting it

As if it were

Hazardous

Evidence

Weapon

Of a scene.

In the figurative sense, it was.

Thin

Blade

Stained

Startling signs

It cut

Deep.

He frowned upon seeing it.

Even more perturbing

It had cut

Contrary to common belief

Not perpendicular

But parallel

To the wrist.

Like a razor teeth

It sunk its fangs

Certainly drawing blood

Severing

Fatal.

Quickly.

Douse

Rinse

Pocket it away

Dispose

Despise.

The situation he was in

Certainly forcing

His fortitude

Mental strength

To breaking point.

She had broken.

The impasse he was caught in

A clear testament

To the awful consequence

Of a wrong answer

Possibly

His rotten conduct.

As the saying goes

From bad to worse.

To him

It seemed

All the planets

Finally aligned

To break his spirits

Once and for all.

He was on a continuous streak

Of bad luck

As if everything

Hostile

Towards him.

And now

Picking up

From the ghastly pool of red

A stained image

Small portrait.

He was stunned

Thunderstruck clarity

Immediately

Sickened

Rocking him

To the core.

They say.

Pictures are worth a thousand words.

If so, then there is no need for a suicide note.

A simple picture

Serves as a letter

Farewell

Last words.

Yes, there was no denying it.

Temper

Like heated water

Boiled up

He was indignant

Frustrated

But not because of her.

No, it was not her.

Reluctantly

He looked

Closer

At the square portrait.

Wiping it off

Clarify

It depicted

Him

And her

The cynic

The fire queen

A stolen picture perhaps

For he could not remember

When it was taken.

Peculiar.

The two of them

Side by side

Upon closer scrutiny

He could spot

Beside her cheerful grin

A smile

Though faint

On his lips

Rare

Joy.

He would have cried.

But no tears appeared.

He was upset.

To think

This would be

Her last words

Had he been too late

Her farewell.

Why?

Again

The answer

Obvious

But is it?

Revelation

Had all this

Transpired

All those months earlier

The time

When he

Was still

In the rawest form

Rotten

Repulsive

The cynic

At his finest.

He would merely sneer

Gawk at the reality

That had destroyed

People.

Her.

To him

Suicide

The lowest form

Of running away.

Which, he had perceived.

Her attempt.

She had tried to run away

Inadvertedly, away

From him.

Ironically

But not away

Truth

She had tried

To run

Towards him.

But now.

A lesson.

He may finally understand.

People do not kill themselves.

They kill the pain.