She held the pistol to her temple.

Fluorescent lights enveloped her thin body,
slurring comforting words, caressing her
into believing everything was okay.
These lights were her friends,
they decorated her body, she admired
the way bright light made flaws disappear.
Loved the way darkness took away
stretch marks.

She can’t do it.

Words hid in the crevices of a long term memory,
Sewing her mind in self-hate, seamstresses
stitched in bad memories, provoking suicide.
Self-esteem could be weighed out on the
digit that screamed up at her on the scale,
ninety pounds -- not enough.

She can’t do it.

Her paper palm cupped its handle,
fragile fingers hesitating over its cold trigger.
Let me fade away with one bang, she’s trembling,
crying, she looks down at the broken promises
carved onto her hips. Burns crawling up her forearms,
her father always told her, to numb the pain
in a certain area by biting your finger,
you forget about the other trouble.
She was only forgetting the agony.  
 

Don’t do it.

The gun smiles up at her, it’s too sweet.
Throwing it down, she writes her feelings
on lonely crinkled paper, humans questioned addiction.
They wondered how it took our pain away.
She leaned against the wall,
looking up at the ceiling, wondering
if God was proud of her, for ruining the body
he gave her. She smiled, with a mascara stained face.
 

She wasn’t afraid of addiction,

she’s been addicted to pain

for way too long.