Beautiful Suicide of My Soul
Beautiful Suicide of My Soul
by M. Allshouse
I bleed from the dark corners of my mind—
Streams of self-hatred and doubt.
You call it performance—
But is it really a script if I cannot rewrite the scene?
Let me offer my wrists.
Arms outstretched.
I cannot seem to die beautifully enough for you.
So please, do me the honor—
Slice deep.
Bleed me for what I’m worth.
So maybe finally, this internal hemorrhage of emotion
Will cease—
To torment me.
I am bound—
Metaphorically—
With iron chains that dig into my supple skin,
Weighted with expectation,
Leaving marks that etch themselves into my flesh.
Maybe they were always there—
Like invisible ink brought to light
Through trial and hardship.
Are we made by the things that happen?
Or does the tempering of the fire
Merely bring to the surface what always was?
Impurities of the psyche,
Always there,
Just lying in wait
For the moment they become useful.
Would you end my suffering?
Tie my noose for me,
So I might suffocate the flames of anguish?
Would that be—
Beautiful—
Enough?
You never asked to be my executioner,
And I never appointed you as such—
But God,
If we’re talking about performance…
You play the part so well.
Standing ovation from the balcony,
Full of people who believe I will fail.
Let’s give them a show.
A real story to tell.
I was cast as a side note—
But you needed a villain.
And now that I’ve become her,
You flinch at the script you’d written.
Beautiful Suicide of My Soul
by M. Allshouse
I bleed from the dark corners of my mind—
Streams of self-hatred and doubt.
You call it performance—
But is it really a script if I cannot rewrite the scene?
Let me offer my wrists.
Arms outstretched.
I cannot seem to die beautifully enough for you.
So please, do me the honor—
Slice deep.
Bleed me for what I’m worth.
So maybe finally, this internal hemorrhage of emotion
Will cease—
To torment me.
I am bound—
Metaphorically—
With iron chains that dig into my supple skin,
Weighted with expectation,
Leaving marks that etch themselves into my flesh.
Maybe they were always there—
Like invisible ink brought to light
Through trial and hardship.
Are we made by the things that happen?
Or does the tempering of the fire
Merely bring to the surface what always was?
Impurities of the psyche,
Always there,
Just lying in wait
For the moment they become useful.
Would you end my suffering?
Tie my noose for me,
So I might suffocate the flames of anguish?
Would that be—
Beautiful—
Enough?
You never asked to be my executioner,
And I never appointed you as such—
But God,
If we’re talking about performance…
You play the part so well.
Standing ovation from the balcony,
Full of people who believe I will fail.
Let’s give them a show.
A real story to tell.
I was cast as a side note—
But you needed a villain.
And now that I’ve become her,
You flinch at the script you’d written.