liquid salt

the first time he spoke
of ending his life,
a hint of laughter
diluted the strife

the second time he spoke
of ending his life,
the voice lacked laughter;
and so did his knife

the first time he etched release into his golden skin,
i etched ink into paper instead of his ears.

the time i noticed the scars running
as far wide as the sky and lengthy as the memories,
i begged him to stop,
tears drudging out of deep down places.

what he hid,
his life reshaped
i frowned as liquid salt escaped.





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