My life is the sin of suicide.
I exist only because
I am too polite not too.
The man beneath the bridge might be traumatized.
I walk past the tempting window…
Fifteen stories up and not even a screen!
…because there are children laughing below.
Their thoughts are ice cream
Who am I to teach them death?
Why show them to wear black?
And their mother might be angry.
I have my own mother for that.
So I stay out of the way of buses
as a stranger smiles,
I make way for hostiles
who might have knives
whose edges keen for me.
I keep the bathroom tidy,
my blood would not come out of the mat.
Ropes are for things
and trees are for children to climb
but not too high
their anxious mothers fearing what I crave.