We romanticize suicide when we\'re too afraid to kill our enemies,
and perhaps it\'s easier to hang ourselves by a thread than lay a blade against their neck.
How much precision do we need to aim the gun to our own heads,
let alone the heads of the people who have driven us to question that?
We are ridden with guilt if we cover our fingertips in someone else\'s blood,
but we\'re numb when we murder ourselves in self hatred.
If we sit in a pitch black room and dream of suicide to the point of completion,
all we are led to is the same level of nothingness we saw in that room anyways.
Why should it be me that bleeds?
In this pitch of nothingness I yearn for anything other than black,
and I begin to realize that my self hatred isn\'t all that colorful.
I shut my eyes and listen as the door creaks,
I wipe away the dust from the door knob,
and I let myself see red.