...I've Come To This.

A grim look at suicide. Another dark poem.

...I'VE COME TO THIS.
by Alex Wylie

You’re better than you think,

she cries, twisting the cracked wedding band—
nervous habit.
He left his on a soap-stained
Motel bathroom sink.

We can work through this,
Please put down the gun!

she sobs, falling to her knees,
mascara stained cheeks.
He pulls back the locks
covering his forehead.

Triggered explosion,
powder scuffed shoulder,
bullet cracks the wall behind.

If you look far enough through the hole,
you can see why…