Suicide Notes on Stationary

She sits there writing suicide notes

on stationary, lying 

stomach down 

on the trampled park grass,

personalizing each note 

with a name

an address

and no goodbyes. 

When she rolls over (because her arms

are starting to fall asleep 

from the elbows down) she examines

the imprints of the blades 

on the fronts of her thighs, 

the little mazes 

of pressed flower skeletons

forever worn onto the tanned satin of her legs.

She thinks if she were a flowers she’d be

a weed–

the pretty, understated kind 

that pushes its way up through sidewalk cracks,

chasing the sun,

until a foot falls down 

and there is no room left

to grow. 


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