The Last Song

A poem about my suicide.

I lost my life

In a rain of razors, and pills, and bodies

Dropped from window sills.

They fell to a chorus

Of my self-loathing and despair.

Sweet, aching notes,

Played on funhouse mirrors

And “realism,”

Like unanswered prayers

To an absentee god.

My death was a symphony

Played on broken heartstrings

And blown-out headphones,

To the drumbeat of a heart, torn out

By guitar-pick fingers.

I swayed back and forth to the music,

Hanging from an attic rafter

By the cord around my neck,

As one by one the last desperate notes stopped,

And I was left in the silent void.