Suicide’s Last Scar

I try my best not to make any value judgements when it comes to suicide, although usually I fail. Whatever the motivations, no matter how understandable they may be, the ramifications will always hit harder. The living, after all, have a lot longer to have to deal with it. Anyway…


A bullet tears through flesh and bone
A needle makes a hole
A rope sustains the dead weight
With knives it’s blood that flows

But the greatest wound that death leaves,
the one that hurts the most,
is stamped into pristine flesh
a looming, grasping ghost

Stabbing at the living
but leaving no clear scar
It’s the curse that’s always waiting
Mind’s door always ajar

Open for the warm touch
The glow that marks the heart
A fragile human flutter
So no one falls apart

But the weapons leave just cold bones
carrion for the earth
a gap in all the lost minds
where bodies turn to dirt

And while the bullet impacts
Knife cuts and rope hangs taut
the force of that last feeling
evades our simple sort

The wound that marked the loved ones
the invisible rough scar
blinds them to the future
Mind’s door is still a jar

For you
and you
and you

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