I didn’t die, just stopped crossing off the days. There’s a difference.
    What’s the difference? 
I said it. I declared it. I know it. 
The difference is I come back, write, write, write. 
All the little birds in my head, 
even with their broken, skinny wings, 
flap and squawk. 
Write, write, write. 
    You’re poisoning yourself. 
No, I’m not. 
Am I? 
Is that why I feel so sick all the time?
There’s no gray in the world I have not touched. Not an eraser, 
but a brush with a drop of water on the very tip. 
Damp bristles. Washed out, stealing color that hasn’t been sealed. 
Hasn’t been given time to seal. 
Is it my fault?
    If only you knew beforehand. 
    Only if you did it with your own hand. 
I did. How do I apologize? 
    Best to just leave it. 
    Leave. 
    Killing has no forgiveness. Suck the life out of something
    and look at it after with all the guilt you can muster. 
    Did it change anything?
No. I only felt worse. 
    Maybe you should.