The colour of suicide

Deep, deep burgundy. The colour of dried blood. But not the texture. Dried blood is flaky. Suicide is globulous, glaucous, glistening, like hot wax slowly rolling towards me across a white plate. If it reaches me, it will engulf me. But I am not afraid. Maybe, if it does, it will be a relief. 

I've looked at suicide before, but then, I didn't notice its appearance. I was too frightened. But now, I am no longer frightened. It is there, and I gaze at it calmly, realising it is part of me. Always has been. Always will be.

Suicide calls me. Until recently, the call was deeply buried, But the events of the last two weeks have brought it to the surface again. 

Maybe, if I contemplate it for long enough, examining its shape, its texture, its colour, its movement, it will stop calling me. Or maybe I will stop resisting, and let it engulf me.