I Committed Suicide

I Committed Suicide I stretched out weary hands. Melisa, who considered me like a big brother, quickly ran away from me. My heart writhed unto me; I longed for a swig of water. Noise danced, rumbled inside me in thunder. But the whirlwind heard the swoosh of the knife as my eyes blushed. But why didn’t I die instead? I placed the knife back in my rusty pocket. I recalled she told me, “No, don’t kill yourself.” “Stress is like chess; either you play it, or it plays you.” Vinegar boiled my blood, though my bones were hit by the daily rocks I ate. My suicidal act was lured with its bait. But why didn’t I die instead? Swarms of flies consumed the skin of my throat. My fleshes were allotted to stresses atop a fire. My fur was tumbleweed and chaff before the wind blew. My mouth became a thirsty land. I turned blue. I cried sandy tears. My ivory screams were smokes. But why didn’t I die instead? “Christo,” I heard as I reconsidered. “Melisa bloodily committed suicide,” an old man vociferated. I fell to my knees. The blood in my head was a rolling sea. Reconsideration ebbed away. I was a zebra running away from a lion’s teeth, but in the lake, caught by the crocodile’s jaws of death. My muscles fainted in decay. My soul ran away from a fowler’s snare. Wails went higher than an eagle’s wings. But why didn’t I die instead?