Dear Suicide

She slit her wrists at dawn.
Wearing nothing
but a white satin film of a nightdress
she began
making her way down the stairs
dripping blood off fingertips as she descended.
Soft splats
of the deepest red
appeared to happen on a slower scale
than the world surrounding.
They landed with a soft push
a want to go deeper
than smooth rejection
in the form of a wooden staircase
caused them to flatten and turn stationary.
She made her way
through the house, out the back door,
and into the garden.
She had always loved this garden
she thought faintly
as she made her way to the center.
She lay her waxing body on a bench made of stone.
And there she died
no pretty endings to this one
just death and his friend,
dear suicide.