Cats Fed

Why do I keep trying to turn my body into poetry?

Why do I need to have stardust in my bones,

and galaxies in my eyes,

rivers and oceans,

running through my veins?

Why do I need flowers on the graves d

of butterflies in my chest?

Why is my own flesh not enough,

my own blood?

Why do I not cherish how it keeps me alive?

I hate how society has made suicide a glamorous thing.

It doesn't help people like me

who wake up every morning

and think about putting on

my best dress,

curl my hair,

and red lipstick

to just hang myself in my one bedroom apartment.

I know my death would come as a shock,

but I also know that everyone in my life would understand and move on.

Whats stopping me?

No one would feed my cat.