A Satire on Suicide

Throwing the Game

I wondered from a young age if it would trickle, run, or spew out profusely.
I wondered if it would hurt, numb, or somehow relieve me.
I wondered at length if I would regret it.
I wondered if calmly, Id simply forget it.
I wondered the color,
I wondered the flow,
I wondered the time it would take to completely let go.
I wondered if Id sleep before the great end,
Or if any of you would still call me your friend.
I wondered at length if I’d change my mind.
Or if slowly Id weaken, and wish for more time.
I wondered how messy the end scene would be.
And prayed Id go easy, and finally be free.

But night after night as I sat at that like
I never imagined Id make a mistake.
Life is a failure, no matter my try.
Melancholy you call me, but that’s how I resign.
So there in that moment, with note perfectly placed
I set forth on my task, with diligence and grace
I said my last prayer, and sighed my last sigh
And slowly I cut into my last goodbye

Then waited and waited and waited did I
For the crimson to flow with a quickness of time.
But slowly it poured, and then it would clot.
So then I would clean it, but it continued to stop.
Tedious and messy and a wasting of time.
I must have cut into the wrong damn line!
I thought for a moment of cutting again,
But worried I’d error, and double the sin!
So now here I sit, bandaged in shame,
For my failed attempt throwing the game.

- Christy Dunbar