don’t go.

i don’t want the image of you in your best tux

arms crossed

in a bed made of wood.


or you with a newly tied rope choker

hanging from your neck,

eyes wide open.


or a jackson pollock painting

but instead of paint,

it’s blood that’s that splashed against the canvas

after the bullet ricocheted through your skin.


or bath water dyed crimson,

your skin shrivelled beyond recognition 

because nobody was home

and by the time they found you,

it’d been hours.


i don’t want you to go.

please don’t go.


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