I don’t stab myself in the hand.
I go for the heart.
Chit chat, then
butter knife
Not nearly sharp enough for all that.
The street walk filled with lonely talk,
Then my face smacked into brick
By my own hand?
That bar that night
To celebrate my birthday
Nobody else would,
A wine glass filled with
Sour trust,
I’m too scared,
She screeching on the cell phone
As I took the long walk in the dark,
Claiming to be gas lit,
Abandoned, I supposed its true
Going home to dangle
From her roof again,
And in my head, I think,
Not again,
Not with her,
When the last time
My true love
Put a bullet in her head
On the eve of St. Valentine’s Day,
Her own personal massacre
I still don’t understand
Why do all these great women
Want to end themselves
When they have so much
To live for
With or without me
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