But the truth is such: I would prefer the bullet.
A cranium full of lead.
Please, if I beg hard enough,
Promise to blend my brains, make grey matter soup
With blood for broth.
Paint the walls with my intellect and
Put a second coat of my memories.
(Is it a nice color?
Does it satiate your lurid sense of taste?)
Cut my wrists, embed the steel six inches
Below my skin, sever the tendons from bone.
Obstruct the flow of elixir, make it scatter
Off into the abyss, where life ceases to exist.
(I can feel my life freezing in the
Deathtrap pouch of flesh called a heart.)
Force feed me cyanide,
Funnel it down my throat.
Give me a suicide capsule to choke on,
While you are at it:
Drown me with mustard gas,
I want my lungs to rupture
Liberating a horrifying wave of fluids,
Spilling the rest of my life with it.
(I want to go without mercy.)