Portrait of a Suicide

after reading Sally Wen Mao

Maybe it’s because
it's simply too hot now,
the way my hair sticks to my face
in lumpy clumps of grief.

Words and motivation
die upon my lips.
Even my body won't move.
I am filled with secrets
as heavy as sadness.

Every window frames
a haunting regret
and my breath fogs the glass
with ache.

I stare out at fields of memory
as sharp as razors.
Lost kisses plague my thoughts.
I am alone, yet never alone.

Even the flowers droop and wilt
in a soft annihilation.

I silently lament
the strange and beautiful accident
that is me.

I cannot die,
though I have died so many times,
and living is the white lilies
on the dresser,

a quiet agony
of a most pure,
despair-kissed yearning.