It’s valentines day. I have a tradition that’s about 12 years old. Every Valentines day I write a suicidal poem. Usually it’s a suicidal love poem, but sometimes the love aspect isn’t very obvious. Here is this years:

Longing

My life is a book.
Its pages written in scribbles and scrawls,
adventures and doldrums.

A page is written and then turned.
I do not look back,
the words from yesterday
can only moisten my eyes.

His eyes
dancing as I blush. A smile.
A touch. A presence.
Ink smudges on my fingers
as I hurriedly record these
experiences.

Pages turn, a teardrop
marring the words.

His eyes
hooded as he looks away.
A longing pulls me to him,
but never a touch.

Paper cuts and blood,
fresh ink on pages.
Images, in alphabetic
resonance.

Beauty is terrible,
a destroyer in its purpose.
Simple elegance,
delicate words on a page,
written in a shaking scrawl,
on a final page.

And for anyone who doesn’t think that’s suicidal enough, here’s one from a few years ago. The love in this one is rather implicit…

Upon the Edge of a Broken Glass

Tumbling edges of glass
Flashing in the light
Sending shimmers of
Refraction through
The air.

Shattered crystal,
Sparks of fire
Float in existence,
As shards of silver light
Scatter along the floor.

Dancing with death.
Fingers playing along
The razor edges,
Sliding with sickening
Intent, waiting.

Phosphorescent images
Play in the air,
Quiet sounds delight,
Harmonize, with
Silent reckoning.

Depression and darkness
Ensue, the silent tears
Of endgame.
Balanced on cutting edges.
Stumbling blindly along.

Droplets of warm red
Moisture, become streams
Of life’s essence, sticky
Heat coating
Flesh, in wasting sensation

Precariously perched
Upon the tight wire of
Cold sharp edges, I lose my
Footing, and tumble
Into oblivion.