not worth bloodying my knuckles,
or the wasted paper on letters
written by dying candle light.
as much, if not more crutches than the cripple wing in the ward.
...and your wings were clipped too early
by your own regressive hands.
there you were, feet on a chair,
neck in noose, complacent and content.
face in hands, and hands above slit wrists.
you killed yourself of me.
you rid yourself of me.