What she really wanted was to be the goodbye girl.
To send herself off at last
like the outcasts who kill themselves
and leave hand-written gobbledegook
by the bed
and the scent of their own rotten flesh
to lift off pungent olfaction into the night.
Oh, how she wanted her words
to reach satisfaction in this darkness.
And so they grew in synthesis,
in mounds unlike rubble
that never crumbled into stippled stubble,
but burned acidic and spicy
on the tongue.
And the long-awaited right to write grit and filth into the world,
to concentrate her distasteful thoughts,
made her come alive
when she was closing in on dead.
How lovely and contrived suicide is, she thought.
No more distractions.
She soaked the words for hours in her head, mingled them
the blacker, the richer, the thicker,
the closer to self-destruction.
She reached towards the back,
the dingiest, foreign caverns of her mind
to delve into her shadowy wish,
And to forfeit those hate-filled eyes and
spit out nasty, opaque speckles of the alphabet
onto paper and into sentences
as crude gifts to the bullies,
those rude motherfuckers.
A long, meaningless letter to those who crushed her,
who spat on her,
day in and day out.
All she ever wanted was to make sense of her bobble-headed,
She’d crack it open with twenty white tablets.
Tonight it would be done.
Downing the bottle of pills, she swallowed.
Her heart shook in its nook.
Her words never translated onto paper very well.
It was always difficult when her lips’ hips were
clenched together like bivalves.
Why can’t she cradle them on command, her lips?
to talk inside her mouth
of the outside world, when
her internal crimes and pains were bursting forth
from the pit.
This is the coming, the explosion
of her sinful concentrations.
The final yawn is near
and she counts off
before falling off the
she senses the time
to put her reactionary pen to paper,
to thrust her inky guts forward,
the darkest oil points from her throat.
She sucked in those chalky, bitter things.
She’s almost ready
to purge her sickly predicaments,
those worthless boundaries
that constrict like tourniquets.
Opening the vein and the mouth…
She never could speak when it meant the most.
her words spilled like oil, wonderfully polluting
the page of her suicide note
She screams and the pen drips
onto the surface like
loquacious, black, and viscous,
like the girl she always wanted to be.
She ripped her articulations onto paper
line by line like a nightly constellation,
threading the opaque stitches,
sloshing and slashing them not patiently
into the letter,
sly and slick and absorbent.
Her words skidded across the page,
ridding her body of tension,
a sensation spoken from brain to hand.
The ink spilled and traveled,
revealing twilight’s tight talons
that released at last,
letting the heart falter
to beat rhythm into the night.
It was done.
No more, her body said.
She was the goodbye girl.