Dance with Me
It was on the first Monday of spring when the sun emerged from a cotton shell, that I worked out how to kill myself. 'Trudge trudge trudge. Bridge steps bus. Same black line. Same black life. Broken glass. Puddle of urine. Train ride to nowhere. Stop. 'This is it. This is how it will happen.' The thought had played on me daily. It was like a crossword puzzle I couldn't solve. Across: The act of ending one’s life (7) Suicide. Suicide. Suicide. Down: Method of ending one’s life (8) … … … ? Yet all that came into my head was a stupid song. ♫ I don’t wannnna dance, dance with you baby no more. Da da dadededa da. Da da de da da da da ♫ I went to the chemist and saw large packets of paracetemol: ♫ I don’t want to dance, dance with you baby no more ♫ I stood at the station and trains thundered at me: ♫ I don’t want to dance, dance with you baby no more ♫ I cut myself shaving and looked at the blood on the razor: ♫ I