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© Lacy Techman


2 Minutes   1.1K    31

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Her feet were bare, blood crawling;

from under, making the white of her skin sparkle.

I watched from behind a wall, the surface of the rocks

painting into my palms. I do nothing.

Just watch. 

Her back is to me and her hands are busy,

kindling, scraping, admiring a hidden object.

She wore the scraps of brown.

And dents of beige covering her elbows and hands.

The colours we'd laugh at when it walk down the halls,

or the colours that sat at the back of the class.

With legs pressured into thighs, and with jaws;

shielding the urge of flying tears.

She turned her body, red hair

soaring across her face. I whip back.

Spine burning into the concrete.                                                                                                                    

She saw me.

I saw her yellow eyes blinking at me

for guidance; pleading. But at the same time;



When I turn around,

her back is teasing me again.

The object in her hand shifting to the left,

baring lose strands of knotted rope.

She stands on a rusty blue stool.

Almost tipping over as she loops the rope,

into the hook hanging from the wall.

The rope dangles suspended 6 ft above the ground.

Her hands clasp on the rope, and she wears it.

Like a necklace; thick around her neck.

Cloaking the enclosed locks of red.

Her hands churn backwards un-strangling the light curls;

caping the design of rope.

She kicks the stool away, wheeling it to the brick wall.

Her legs smack the air, and her hands swat;

trying to reach for the rope. I do nothing. 

Just watch.

poem suicide perspective

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