By CareLuv
The suicide book
is on my bookshelf
hiding between Plath and Poe--
loosely bound and sinking
pages
heavy
laden
with grief
put to ink
put to words.
And I wonder
if the weight it carries
grows
with each day
it remains unread...
It has a presence and a mind
screams in the night
and sobs...oh how it sobs.
It sobs
inconsolably.
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