Lines Written in Contemplation of Suicide

The room is small, yet larger than my breath.

It holds the hush that gathers after cries,

A clock that taps its knuckles against death,

And asks no questions, offers no replies.

The mirror keeps a rumor of my face,

A fading watermark of who I’ve been;

I trace the outline, searching for a trace

Of something sturdier beneath the skin.

The mind can make a corridor of night

So long it swallows every distant door;

It names the dark as permanent, as right,

And calls the weary heart to want no more.

Yet even now, a thin, persistent thread

Of morning tugs: not gone—just faintly spread.