She hold her life in her hands as if it were weightless.

Sitting on the edge of sadness and great peril,

The windowsill, open and ushering in an autumn breeze.

She places the gun to her head,

Her hands move all on their own.

Unconsciously, fingering the trigger.

Ready to pass judgment upon her skull.


She wishes that as she falls,

She’ll float like a leaf, on the tree outside her window.

Never touching the sunlight again.

Never rustling with her friends at the tippity top.

Never seeing the beginning of new life in mother bird’s nest.


In all things, comes the same end.

Life is only a slow and painful death.

And her bullet is a pill that cures all ailments.


Her wish has been granted.

I catch her in a timeless moment.

Her body is weightless.

A reddened leaf meeting its end.

Sprawled in a pirouette of lifeless splendor.


I’ll never know why she wanted to kill herself,

I mumble as I sit under her tree, laying her down in the arms of the earth.

I wanted to help; I wrote her a note and explained it myself.

After all, life is a slow and painful death.


And this bullet is the pill that cures all ailments.


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