Hung - Mel Afoa

She stands on the high-stool,
feet close to the edge, neck close to the rope.

The noose swings softly near her ear
the tears rolling slowly down from her black irises.
One hand tightly holds the rope on the ceiling,
the other clutching his letter.
She is running through suicide scenarios in her head,
wondering whether what they say is true,
once you jump off the stool,
death's arms immediately open.
She quickly wonders why he did it.
Did what he did.
Left her to walk forward towards the end.
He had left her, written an elegant letter with sophisticated writing,
the handwriting expressing feelings belonging to the heart.
He had said he had loved her no more, had sung it to her in a song,
the mixtape sitting comfortably on the counter of her red-blood table.
He had forced her to see his perspective of their love,
told her of their faded love,
the spark between them once ignited,
had slowly begun to dim.
She had dressed in her finest attire for this moment.
Wore her crimnson formal dress.
He had claimed that she had looked like the picturesque roses,
sitting peacefully outside in their winter garden.
She had worn her beautiful darkest-black wedge heels,
reminding her of the time he had remarked of their defined beauty on her.
She wore the elegant and genuine pearl necklace that he had given,
the white that he said promised more love, and a happy future.
She had lost him.
And the mixtape reminded her so.
She slowly makes the cross sign onto her heart, and bows down.
Praying silently, she begs for a better home and for more comfort,
Heaven or Hell seemed to offer more than her heart.
And within a few seconds,
bound tightly around her neck,
the noose sat with determination and guiit.
One push, and the chair was flung backwards,
two feet left to hover in the air,
body attached, rope round the neck,
self-harmed scars around her body,
and a scarred, bloody, dead heart ripped open.
Death had come to collect her,
and she hung there waiting.