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.
