Not Quite Death in Midsummer


art by Peter Schwartz



Calm yourself and speak to me,
The blood has clotted, you shall live.
Suicidal pretendency
Will not grant you sympathy—
Although I promise to forgive
The bloodstains on my bedroom floor
If you don't do it anymore.
Or, if you slash both your wrists
And make sure that you cut them deep.
I am so sick of morbid fits.
Next time slash and jab and twist
Your fucking knife…and let me sleep.
I cannot stand to wake again
To watch you act like you're insane.

You know, if you want to die
There is a way to do it right:
A knitting needle through the eye,
Sleeping pills, a quart of rye…
Don't make me waste another night
With cleaning up another mess.
You die…or find a new address,
Okay? Now, goodnight to you,
Perhaps I'll wake and you'll be gone?
I hope to hell you're going to,
But, no matter what you do—
Your slitting wrist shit isn't on
When you cut one and end up sick;
You need to slice them both, and quick.



by Juleigh Howard-Hobson