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suicide is about
How much do I have to wash my body,
To cleanse away the reality of corpse?
Because after the suicide,
Denial sets in.
And we craft the mundane into metaphors
To express what we have vowed to censor
Ands its not about having friends,
It’s about having someone who would be a friend.
And it isn’t about mercy
It’s about saying “the rape must have been merciful.”
It isn’t about victory
It’s about overcoming the loss
Even if the loss was the identity
We couldn’t form in the first place.
It’s about wishing our mother dead
When one isn’t living to die
So why can’t she just die?
It’s about betraying your brother
Because he is too stupid to understand
The nature of his own betrayals,
It’s about saying “you are the closest thing I had to a mother
Because I could count on you to leave.”
It’s about bruising the fetus into an adult
Its about calling adulthood partial birth abortion
It’s about the umbilical cord strangling you
And knowing it gets you off.
It’s about fucking the pussy
Which fucks her own daughter
It’s about talking morality
And reserving our standards for others
It’s about our inhibitions
And lying when we say “yes!”
Because we would rather be killed,
Than wake up that sore again.
It’s about declaring war
Because the motherfuckers who read this
Just want to taste the texture of a peach
In words,
And the others have renamed poetry,
Nigger.
