Suicide Sonnet

Take a word, image — slice & dice them through
like sausage (or the stuff of which sausage
is made). Scrap old meanings, & stuff in new.
Things you see but can’t say become bossage,
old words carved into new symbols, bone bright,
delicate & sharp. I haven’t told you
about when I stood shaking, in the night,
on a high balcony, staring down. Cue:
skin crawling, nerves firing. It was only
an hour before someone else jumped. Next day,
when I went down to breakfast, so slowly,
the hazmat team cleaning up turned away,
as if the floor would vanish, the plumped pink ghost.
Shhh, I thought, eating raspberry jam on toast.

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