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