The woman remembers
writing her suicide notes.

She's kept them all
—sentimental nihilist—

still amazed at the light.

These relics
she finds in a box,

letters
she wrote to her daughter,

that summer when she was stricken
and bruised.

There are only four pages
they begin with

My Darling—

for how else could she feel
when she told of

cramped tunnels and dying?

They ended
love always
your mummy.

Small words
for the burden they carried.

Now she's a stale dated survivor

who squints at yesterday's sorrow
like it's a mouse turd
found under the sink.

Oh to have once been so certain

that the brave singular ending
she longed for,

would let her blaze and fall,
away from these ties that bind.