poem

 

I struggle

to get the blade in

but can't get it right.

Nothing is smooth. Your heart

is even harder than I imagined.

I toss my hair back drenched with sweat.

The heat and humidity are killing me.

By the time you go down, we're both so limp

it's just a matter of getting it done.

I look at the knife sticking straight out

your chest and when I still feel nothing

I pull it out and watch the blood pool up

around your neck. Now sister, we'll finally

both be able to rest awhile.

 

 

 

      from " Trust"