Suicide Wrapped in the Scent of White Florals

My skeletal hand forever reaches forth.
It holds fast to the railroad spike,
rescued from the tracks
where she threw herself in front of the screaming train
over and
over and
over again.

With a shaking fist raised to the sky,
I bring it down to first face hell
then against the wall,
iron against iron.
Reddened rust turns to bone meal,
fluttering snowflakes you will never again taste
with your outstretched tongue.

Seasons pass behind me,
the once bare walls now etched
with lines of parallel white headstones.
Soon enough my tendons will snap
my bones will break
my blood will congeal
my muscles will atrophy.

Do you hear the hollow rolling across the dusty floor?
The echoing noise cut short by the next ever-grasping hand,
still slippery with tears formed in the wrong ducts.

Let’s pick up where we left off.