When you want to kill yourself
make it a butterfly suicide,
spin the chrysalis over your wounds
and bleed, bleed, bleed–
bathe in the cocoon of your exsanguination
sweat, soaking, sealed.
Gift the murder weapon to your inner Marie Kondo;
she’ll greet and thank the house before
carving up the clutter, leaving
what sparks joy.
Moth wing flutter kicks up cobweb dust
long since settled; let the darkness be drawn
in to the flame, burn it all
as fuel for a new future.