I think I could hold your limp body forever, still and silent, no flutter of existence, just the broken sound leaking out in a hiss. I take my hand and rub it against your cheek, which is bloody and sticky. I haven’t really considered what this looks like on the outside. All that I know is you can’t breathe anymore and you don’t vibrate and pulse. But I love you so much anyway, even in the throes of underworld serenity. I cradle your head to my breast and bits of your skull seem to fall away with brain matter, it soils my dress. I guess you were always making messes though, of everything. That’s why I have you here against my chest like a still born. There is no audience for this death rattle, for the swan song that escapes my lips as I suck past oxygen to the deeper chemical compounds and push forth the shaking scream. Your peaceful visage, awake with open eyes and asleep in eternal reverie, have left me no choice, I must finish what I started. The gun is still warm from the discharged round that I placed in your head, I can still smell the powder burn. But it was you or me, wasn’t it? Now it’s both of us. I press the barrel to my temple, it singes my baby hairs, I take one last glance at your torn cranial bone spray and shut my eyes. If a girl shoots herself in an empty wood, does the gunshot make a cry?