[a moviescript ending]

lying in a white room watching my belly
rising and falling in the water
with each slow breath

my toes are burning red far away
under the faucet, where final tears
swan dive into the silence
rippling through this empty house.

a red washcloth hangs on
the curved rim of my porcelain coffin
like a blood-soaked rag

and i imagine how my wrists would look
pouring into the shallow water,
turning it rose, then pink, and red.

in the afternoon light everything
is drawn in charcoal greys,
harsh and cold outside my blood bath

and my mind is blank as
the ceiling before me,
as blurred as the life i'd leave behind

i came home to end myself,
to slip away in a quiet house
where death could be beautiful.

the scars on my arms throb
like fresh-cut veins in the
tepid bath-water;

i can hear each heartbeat
in my half-submerged ears
and i want to know what it's like

to not wake up from sleeping,
to fade out of life like a whisper
[or a cough]

but i don't reach for the razorblade,
because i know i can't bring myself
to draw it across

i lift my hands, dripping,
out of the water and stare at my swollen fingers,
spread-eagled against the bright white

a door opens downstairs and
the clicking of heels on hardwood floor
tells me it's too late for a movie-script ending.