not even she was prepared to see what she had to when opening the door
things scattered randomly on the floor
an empty bottle glasses
empty containers of medicine
her underwear and his
her body was not hanging between the coats any more
and her eyes looking at the knob of the rope cruelly cut
(the only reminder of what has taken place in the quiet flat before)
was still hanging there
burning her
as though it was a hot august night
when after a fight you fall on the floor and beg for it to stop
her eyes wide shut and dry stared about
to witness the magnity of the loss
the dogfood spilt on the floor must not have been far from her feet not touching the ground
in front
the table covered with
money, her glasses, unnamed objects of no importance
the heart-shaped box made especially for her some days ago
and next to it...
her body twitched as she forced her arm to reach for the book
her fingers gently caressing the red cover
opening
(as if opening her..her eyes..her mouth...her dead mind, her thoughts and feelings lying around)
her eyes were still reading when she placed it back
those lines now forgotten
but still crawling under her skin
would only have made things worse.
death is simple.
survival is not.
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