You make me want to kill myself
she said
as she slammed the door.
This combination of noises
beat at my heart
like ritualistic drums.
I ran to the window
and split the blinds with
my fingertips and pushed my
oily face against the glass
to watch her walk away.
It was raining a dense,
heavy rain
that thrummed the top
of her head and slapped
her shoulders and
slicked her hair down her spine.
A bulging pack hung
from her shoulder
containing pants, shirts,
underwear, socks, and her
bras.
The vinyl bag caught
rivulets of the
heavy rain
and they danced downward
like a broken marionette.
When I couldn’t see
her anymore through the
heavy rain,
I cried to myself and
considered the correlation
between love and
suicide.
