lover
My own suicide lies curled up in my bed with me. Its arms are warm and heavy, enticing me closer with the lull and security it provides.
I can always see it, out of the corner of my eye, even when I think I am alone. Even when I think I should be alone. It is there, here with me, always - see it crouched on top of the wardrobe, sitting across the lecture hall, hidden in the crevices of old stone, packed into the crowd at a bar.
It sidles up to me when I shower alone, velvet warm skin cradling mine. Water pours over both of our heads. Its arms reach down to grab at my wrists but the razor and its blades lie still on the bathroom sink. It rinses the suds out of my hair for me. Not impatient, not discouraged. It has time, it has persistence. We both know this.
It's funny, though. Sometimes it speaks out of my own mouth. I am the mouthpiece for it. I am its own best advocate. I have ignored how its hands claw into me when we dance, and I will continue to do so. It loves me, and I want to be loved. I can't help but to pull closer and stay to its side. When it leaves me, for a day or two, I miss it. I want it back.
My own suicide kisses me on the back of the neck, wrists, arms. Something velvet in its touch. I watch it, and see the places it chooses. It is getting harder and harder to leave its warm, velvet arms in the morning. We both know this. It is patient. It has time, it has persistence. We both know this.