She Killed Herself Blah Blah Blah

[Bewlay Brother]

I killed a mouse. I did not realize it was a mother. A few minutes later I found four baby mice tucked away in an old rag I used to dry off my car last summer.



Don't worry,

they couldn't watch her die.

Mother never got to pry open their

eyes, so this bunch of baby mice

with baby bliss

never had to worry

about eyes.



My mind has a black fog,

I don't know what it's called

but I pray that it's not called "me"

It has a death grip on my brain that needs pried loose.



I don't want to live

in my congested brain.

I want to live but

only in the hot lava on my chest

from long ago,

many months ago,

when I'd walk under loud maple trees,

feeling the orange and feeling the breeze,

just thinking of ways to be

the best man I can be

for her, and perhaps even myself.



I want to live but

only if I find a new nightmare

that doesn't just zoom

closer and closer into

that impenetrable wall

of soaking brunette hair

that I playfully flipped,

grapevining her damn beautiful face

that she hated.



If I had found these four hopeless mice last August

I'd have gently pressed a warm and wet

Q-tip against their bloated bits to mimic

the tongue of their mother.

Baby mice need to **** and piss,

that's how mother mouse gets her babies

to **** and piss and live.



But it's not August, there's

no lava on my chest.

It's time to ditch

eraser-sized rodents

in the woods,

but I'm too busy.



My lava left me and let me down

but so did the rope.

It did the ropedy-dope and broke,

branding a brush-burn into my neck

that spoke to me like Anne Sullivan,

but in the language of burning skin

instead of water and vibrations.

The muscles in my neck turned

acoustic and my burning skin

told me that if I try

to kill myself again

to just forget about it,

I don't deserve to live.

Not for myself, not even for

her damn beautiful face

that she wasted.



The black fog had a death grip.

I pried it loose, put it in a balloon

with baby mice, filled the balloon with helium then let go.

[kiz_paws]

I killed a mouse. I did not realize it was a mother. A few minutes later I found four baby mice tucked away in an old rag I used to dry off my car last summer.



Don't worry,

they couldn't watch her die.

Mother never got to pry open their

eyes, so this bunch of baby mice

with baby bliss

never had to worry

about eyes.



My mind has a black fog,

I don't know what it's called

but I pray that it's not called "me"

It has a death grip on my brain that needs pried loose.



I don't want to live

in my congested brain.

I want to live but

only in the hot lava on my chest

from long ago,

many months ago,

when I'd walk under loud maple trees,

feeling the orange and feeling the breeze,

just thinking of ways to be

the best man I can be

for her, and perhaps even myself.



I want to live but

only if I find a new nightmare

that doesn't just zoom

closer and closer into

that impenetrable wall

of soaking brunette hair

that I playfully flipped,

grapevining her damn beautiful face

that she hated.



If I had found these four hopeless mice last August

I'd have gently pressed a warm and wet

Q-tip against their bloated bits to mimic

the tongue of their mother.

Baby mice need to **** and piss,

that's how mother mouse gets her babies

to **** and piss and live.



But it's not August, there's

no lava on my chest.

It's time to ditch

eraser-sized rodents

in the woods,

but I'm too busy.



My lava left me and let me down

but so did the rope.

It did the ropedy-dope and broke,

branding a brush-burn into my neck

that spoke to me like Anne Sullivan,

but in the language of burning skin

instead of water and vibrations.

The muscles in my neck turned

acoustic and my burning skin

told me that if I try

to kill myself again

to just forget about it,

I don't deserve to live.

Not for myself, not even for

her damn beautiful face

that she wasted.



The black fog had a death grip.

I pried it loose, put it in a balloon

with baby mice, filled the balloon with helium then let go.Interesting poem, quite intriguing.

[Shadowlight]

Though, I know these stories exist, I hope this isn't a personal piece.

There seems to be truth in the saying that someone who does not love themselves could not truly love another. To commit suicide is to knowingly leaving those who love you behind for the pain they will endure. Though grief is the well-known effect to someone for their loss, this poem touches on the apathy it can cause and how that could be just as hurtful. Seems there was a lesson learned, albeit, through the saddest of means. It is a sad but touching piece.

[Jerrybaldy]

Best title of any poem I have seen posted on here

[Jerrybaldy]

Btw. Great post also.