Still Life with A Dying Object

She is still life. Breathing. Chest rising. Her respirations stable for a minute. She stops. Gasps.
The fork to her mouth. Ashes to her tongue. Poison to her stomach. It churns. Churns, spits everything out both ends.
You plead with her in voice, she with her mind, her eyes.
Let me go. Stop. Let me go.
Fork to her mouth. She licks it, grimaces. Cries softly. No. The tears are your own. Sometimes.
She takes water to wet her mouth. Prays for silence. You for her soul. Her for your happiness.
Up. Down. Down. You try to breath life back into her, her brittle ribs collapse under your hand.


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