I feel an immense urge to

Push myself down into the ink below me-

The sea of ink raging below the bridge I stand on,

So that I can drown.

But am restrained by the noose I spun around my neck,

The coarse rope making its presence known

By eating away at my flesh.

It's-

It's death either way-

The ink fills my lungs,

Or the noose catches its snare.

I choose the ink.

I look down from the bridge,

Take a deep breath,

And fall towards the ink,

Towards the beautiful ink and

The noose chokes me to quietus.

It's hypocritical, really.

That I chose death before I wanted it.

~