His guitar napping on the sofa after a wild night, the tv was on.
Three empty bottles of sleeping pills on the floor.
Trail of tears pointing to the bathroom.
The tub holds his remain.
He held a flower in his hand; the thorns bit his palm, bleeding a few drops patterning a broken heart on the tile.
Life faded.
What's new? It's another suicide.
The cleaning lady will apply lots of Clorox the next morning.
Cleanliness necessitated, the smell of death is unpleasant for some noses, sentiments must decay.
The cleaning lady is there following each self-destruction.