8th Annual Poems About Suicide Month

[Wjames]

I am always falling off a cliff
in a recurring dream
that ends before impact,
waking up tired and afraid
the morning is real.

Breakfast is a hardboiled egg
with a grey film
that coats my tongue
and taints the coffee,
steeping my breath
in compost.

I wish I were dead
enters my brain
involuntarily,
a dandelion seed sprouting
in an unmown lawn.