Meg Haston

am I not trying hard enough, not achieving enough to make her see my choice, the one I’ve sworn to with skin and bone?

The weight of my useless body rotting in the ground. My soul lighter than paper and drifting far from its fleshy prison.

Death won’t desert me. It’s waiting for me, beckoning. And I’m ready, taking sure steps toward my final act.

I stare at the wall behind her for so long that my eyes drift out of focus. I let them. It’s nice to see the world that way sometimes, blurred around the edges like I’ve sunk to the bottom of the ocean and am staring up at the sun.

I am reflecting so much that I can hardly breathe.

All this pretty is a goddamn lie.

My body knew before I did: She was still gone.

She never considers that it was writing that got me here in the first place, destroying me from the inside out.