A thousand cuts at my throat Carry me down the red sea, Gentle waves upon which she floats: Staring into my eyes - white and glaring, Vacant crescents glowing in the night, Still. Deep, possessed but staring, But my brave child does not cry, Curls up against her mothers warmth Presses her head against her thigh, “what a game, my mother is playing, what a red, in which she’s laying!” Playing games are a mothers duty, Splashing her feet: a thousand jewels Baby in awe of crimson rubies, Child asks to quench her thirst - To sing her the sweetest of lullabies, Mothers teats are warm at first: Presses her lips against her nipples, Taking her offer of body and wine, Smacking her checks in crimson ripples, Falls asleep by mothers side. * Too afraid to be happy Too afraid to try Unwilling to live Yet unwilling to die My suicide? Really? I ask. Why, dieing is such a difficult task!