And when I cried for help,
And was hung from the ceiling,
And my noose was made of hate,
And my plea was written down,
And was contemplated for a while,
And was discussed,
And I was mocked,
And thought of as weak,
And people spat at me,
And the judge in the courtroom saw,
And he banged his gavel,
And the verdict was negative,
And I lost all hope,
And the opposition felt triumphant,
And grabbed the paper,
And crumpled it,
And ripped it in two,
And spat on it,
And threw it on the floor,
And walked over it,
And lit a match
And burnt it,
And it was naught but a pile of ash,
And the ash was blown away,
And there was nothing left,
And my breathing slowed,
And my thoughts increased,
And stopped altogether,
And my body hung from the ceiling,
And was almost lifeless,
And all I heard them ask was
"And why did she never cry for help?"
And they left it there,
And I knew there was nothing to say,
I died.
YOU ARE READING
the mind's recesses
Poetrywords that fell out of inky fingers, and stained the paper that lay on wooden tables.
