What will be my suicide?
Shall I be martyred?
Or an Ophelia
to the world,
merrily drowning in the rain?
I seem to have run out of
options for this life.
And you think you know
that my motive is
your love to me.
Well, that's one down,
with infinity to go.
Truthfully, I cannot accept it.
How do I know it's real
if I've never felt it?
So out to the meadows I go,
lavender and rue to gather;
the violets died with my hope.
My white gown billows in the wind
just as it does in water.

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