Last Seen in Brooklyn at 12:53am
Blood stained walls in the bathroom of a five star hotel in Manhattan
I found her in a bathtub with a bullet in her head
the bullet was ringed with glitter, and the gun was made of gold
she was wearing nothing more than a chic diaphanous nightgown
her hair pulled back,
probably to avoid the blood.
It didn't work though.
On the bed was a clear glass box with a letter inside,
marked with matte maroon lipstick.
She must have kissed it minutes before,
her touch still lingering on the piece of paper
signatured by her lips.
She talked about how she wanted to go glamorously,
how the world was better off without her,
how she wanted to go out with a bang.
She figured the golden gun was a good touch.
She didn’t even mention the bullet ringed with glitter.
She apologized to her sister though;
she wanted her to know how much she loved her
and to warn her to never do something this stupid.
Because killing yourself is selfish.
Then again, she knew she had always been selfish.
Her mother stands over her dead body in pure agony,
as white as a ghost
maybe whiter.
With pupils the smallest i've ever seen,
she keeps muttering under her breath.
Nobody can make out what she’s saying-
I don't think anybody wants too.
The man in the white jump suit is trying to scrape her fuschia red blood off the once white walls,
but to no avail.
It was her unintended signature.
When her sister walked in, the quiet turned to screams;sobbing and gasping for breath,
she sounded like she was drowning.
A police man grabbed her and tried calming her down.
She just kept kicking,
arms flailing.
It was as if she had no bones in her body,
like she was melting right there,
in front of everyone.
She didn't care any more;
there was nothing left for her in the world.
When they called her boyfriend, the line went silent.
They didn't say she was dead, though.
They just said there was a problem,
they don't disclose that type of information over the phone.
When he got here, his reaction was quite different from that of her mother and sister.
Fear was painted on his face-
no screaming,
no kicking,
no crying.
He looked at the body,
and walked out.
No questions asked.
How can two people be so close,
share all of their secrets,
their touch,
their bed,
their souls,
and walk out practically expressionless?
At the end of the night, after the body was in the morgue,
the phone rang-
another suicide.
When we made it to the scene, something seemed off.
There was a note again, inside a glass box-
no matte maroon lipstick, though.
I didn’t bother to make this glamorous, death isn’t glamorous I don't know why she cared enough to make it glamorous. I mean seriously, a sparkly bullet and a gold gun? Death is death and blood is blood. I hope this is brutal enough for you
See you in another life
and at that moment i began to understand-
we exist to fall in love,
and falling in love will either be the best thing that ever happened to us,
or kill us.
You can decide that one for yourself
I now understand why he was so expressionless-
because he knew that he was done,
that his life was over,
that sometimes you love someone so much, you can’t imagine your life without them.
You can try to imagine it,
but then, suddenly, the person whom you love is gone
and you want nothing more but to be gone, too
and that’s why he did what he did.
Blood stained on the walls of a cheap old motel in the Bronx of New York City.
No glittery bullets,
no golden guns.
Just a note in a glass box and a finger to pull the trigger-
a trigger to make his wish a reality.
The funny thing though, there wasn't a spot of blood in his hair.
I found her in a bathtub with a bullet in her head
the bullet was ringed with glitter, and the gun was made of gold
she was wearing nothing more than a chic diaphanous nightgown
her hair pulled back,
probably to avoid the blood.
It didn't work though.
On the bed was a clear glass box with a letter inside,
marked with matte maroon lipstick.
She must have kissed it minutes before,
her touch still lingering on the piece of paper
signatured by her lips.
She talked about how she wanted to go glamorously,
how the world was better off without her,
how she wanted to go out with a bang.
She figured the golden gun was a good touch.
She didn’t even mention the bullet ringed with glitter.
She apologized to her sister though;
she wanted her to know how much she loved her
and to warn her to never do something this stupid.
Because killing yourself is selfish.
Then again, she knew she had always been selfish.
Her mother stands over her dead body in pure agony,
as white as a ghost
maybe whiter.
With pupils the smallest i've ever seen,
she keeps muttering under her breath.
Nobody can make out what she’s saying-
I don't think anybody wants too.
The man in the white jump suit is trying to scrape her fuschia red blood off the once white walls,
but to no avail.
It was her unintended signature.
When her sister walked in, the quiet turned to screams;sobbing and gasping for breath,
she sounded like she was drowning.
A police man grabbed her and tried calming her down.
She just kept kicking,
arms flailing.
It was as if she had no bones in her body,
like she was melting right there,
in front of everyone.
She didn't care any more;
there was nothing left for her in the world.
When they called her boyfriend, the line went silent.
They didn't say she was dead, though.
They just said there was a problem,
they don't disclose that type of information over the phone.
When he got here, his reaction was quite different from that of her mother and sister.
Fear was painted on his face-
no screaming,
no kicking,
no crying.
He looked at the body,
and walked out.
No questions asked.
How can two people be so close,
share all of their secrets,
their touch,
their bed,
their souls,
and walk out practically expressionless?
At the end of the night, after the body was in the morgue,
the phone rang-
another suicide.
When we made it to the scene, something seemed off.
There was a note again, inside a glass box-
no matte maroon lipstick, though.
I didn’t bother to make this glamorous, death isn’t glamorous I don't know why she cared enough to make it glamorous. I mean seriously, a sparkly bullet and a gold gun? Death is death and blood is blood. I hope this is brutal enough for you
See you in another life
and at that moment i began to understand-
we exist to fall in love,
and falling in love will either be the best thing that ever happened to us,
or kill us.
You can decide that one for yourself
I now understand why he was so expressionless-
because he knew that he was done,
that his life was over,
that sometimes you love someone so much, you can’t imagine your life without them.
You can try to imagine it,
but then, suddenly, the person whom you love is gone
and you want nothing more but to be gone, too
and that’s why he did what he did.
Blood stained on the walls of a cheap old motel in the Bronx of New York City.
No glittery bullets,
no golden guns.
Just a note in a glass box and a finger to pull the trigger-
a trigger to make his wish a reality.
The funny thing though, there wasn't a spot of blood in his hair.