Pen, Paper, and Pills

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.

The pen.

The paper.

The pills.

No more distractions.

She soaked the words for hours in her head, mingled them

with self-loathing.

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,

her fate.

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,

scatter-brained cranium.

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.

But, now

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

but feverishly

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.


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