The Many Suicides

If I was going to do it,  
I'd have to do it right.
 
A winter sun is blooming bleak and white  
beyond an old window.  
Nothing I can say, or write,  
will make it beautiful.  

And if I was to see its face  
I'd see my stepmother,  
shattered out of time and place,  
wandering between the wards.  
A rotted clasp of lips and eyes  
that drew my father once,  
but now reclines  
in spaced out days.  
 
If I was going to do it,  
I'd have to do it right...  
 
No chance to be locked up  
just like my stepmother,  
released and recaptured,  
a strange and broken animal  
that cannot be repaired.  
 
In the end she did it right, of course.  
But I would only do it once,  
and keep my dignity.