Asking For a Friend

What’s the quickest route to heartbreak?
Does sentiment make for
better roadkill or gunshot victim?
Should it be dead, or in prison?

You see, I’ve been entertaining the
scissors and incisions,
bottles and the business of poison.

You see, I’ve been living with my
but co-existence ain’t one of them.

Christened a crisis
and funeral
rites notwithstanding,
my psyche’s psoriasis
uninvited the means to
fight it off.

Euphoria’s got a smoker’s cough I
just can’t match
for abandoning breath.

What’s the most painless road to dying young? Is it living up to how far I’ve fallen, or embracing a microcosm of painkillers and losing blood I don’t contest? What’s the more valuable, the happy ending or the hell that follows?

O, don’t fret,
I’m fine, only
asking for a friend.


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