I am Juliet, romancing

depression like a star-crossed

lover, and drinking a poisoned vial of knowledge

to freeze the tic-toc of suffering. Graves and rosy

cheeked epitaphs serendade my hopes and dreams

with youthful ignorance. We elope to escape the tyranny of

commitment. Brow, not yet soiled by sweat, does not

have the strength to withstand suicide’s slander. So I lie, willingly,

in wait for my Romeo to rescue. And leave the priests to ask,

“Death, what are your intentions?”

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