Suicides Have A Special Language.

Now I Am Going Back And I Have Ripped My Hand From Your Hand As I Said I Would And I Have Made It This Far.

My Life Has Appeared Unclothed In Court, Detail By Detail, Death-bone Witness By Death-bone Witness, And I Was Shamed At The Verdict.

There Once Was A Miller With A Daughter As Lovely As A Grape. He Told The King That She Could Spin Gold Out Of Common Straw. The King Summoned The Girl And Locked Her In A Room Full Of Straw And Told Her To Spin It Into Gold Or She Would Die Like A Criminal. Poor Grape With No One To Pick. Luscious And Round And Sleek. Poor Thing. To Die And Never See Brooklyn. (rumpelstiltskin)

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.

There Is Joy In All: In The Hair I Brush Each Morning, In The Cannon Towel, Newly Washed, That I Rub My Body With Each Morning.