killing myself slowly and softly

no, I refuse time and destiny to
be the ones that murder me.

I deny the sudden and alarming
knock of death on my door
to knock out the air from my lungs,
to sing the last poem of my book of songs

instead, I disguised as death
knock on my own door,
to train, learn diligently
to kill myself slowly
every day at the rate of
one sure thought and one beloved identity,
but I as death in the garb of a clown,
to kill myself softly
with the balm of laughter and lunacy
to offset the discomfort and pain
of bleeding out the idea
that this body is more precious,
my breathing more auspicious
than what I will leave as my legacy
on how to live and die in each breath.

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