I Fucking Don't.

I'm committing suicide by centimetres,
killing myself in increments.
Like a finale that I did not even contemplate

until I began to contemplate it.

Tulle is creeping further up my neck

trying to pry open my mouth,

trying to drown my lungs in pearls and ribbon,

trying to crush my innards with taffeta and lace.

The entire time, I have never taken my eyes off of you.
But the rest of me,
oh god,
the rest of me.

I gave up the remainder yesterday,
I threw away the last piece before I slipped into my cold sheets
and warm whisky.
It was an exquisite deception, I can say now.

A perfectly executed slaughter, 

just like you said it would be.

Supple and seamless.
Calm and angelic.

Fractured and sutured.