Our Selfish Decisions for Noel
Mike Schmitt

She hides her wedding ring
when she sleeps next to me.
Seven days without lithium,
she says she loves me. I believe her.
The scars are her greatest failure,
an escape from suicide or a second chance to succeed.
How can I pin her down, tight enough
that she canít slip away like a cat crawls off to die alone?

She cuts the blue veins
that sliver underneath both wrists.
She traces the white-peach scars
which run the length, webbing at the ends
from the first time she slid the kitchen knife
along her tender flesh.

If she insists on deciding when
she dies, I donít want to find her
dead, but hold her as she dies
and kiss her goodbye.
She completes the cuts confident,
in two puddles of blood, she sits
powerless, weak and waiting
for anyone even death himself
to notice, but neglect pushed her this far.
Who cares anyhow?

I do, Daisy Girl.
You will not be alone in death
as you are in life. I will watch you die.

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