This person is broken.
This person’s soul is held
together by the ticker tape that they
use to plan their funeral in fifth our.
This is the poem is a shout out to
the person who plans the sharp angles
and tall edges of their death in the
bathroom stall at lunch.
For all the people, whose lives are ruined by hate.
In this world, hate is passed down like
second hand clothing from too many parents.
Carried through our generation like cigarette 
smoke.
But behind the scenes of a closed bedroom door
there is a person contemplating their own death.
This person is choreographing a dance across
their skin with a metal blade,
Painting a picture in the depths of their flesh with
only red paint.
This person has been pushed on a cliff and the only
way off is down.
So instead,
This person choreographed a dance that the doctors,
couldn’t fix. 
This person
is gone.