He stood in the shower
For maybe an hour
Long enough for fissures
To form on his fingers.
He whispered, “why am I here?”
A question no one could hear.
He swallowed his tears
He calmed his fears
And took the blade
That sealed his fate.
He stammered, “should I do this,
At least to quiet the voices?”
First the shock, then the sting,
As blade sliced through skin
Then the welcomed quiet
God, was he tired.
He queried, “maybe one more?”
So he settled for four.
As the shower swirled red
And the floor became his bed
As he lay there resigned,
One thought crossed his mind.
He breathed, “will they love me
When I’m gone, finally?”
