properly committing suicide, the surreal way

she balls up her hand into a fist
and shoves the whole thing down
her entire throat, like she cannot
believe it is not butter, like she is
straight from a dali portrait of
his mother, all those freudian
things to wear under dresses,
all those eyes upon her, too
staring and synaptic. swallows,
holds the small birds inside,
teeth a prison gate barring
exit for even the tiniest
breath -- how she suffocates
the poor animals, punching
them with her angry knuckles,
all bone and nothing for skin.
and her stomach, it forgets
how to be empty, or empathetic,
so it were, and so recoils in fear
of what is to come up next. arm
, perhaps a leg, but not down that
lateral tube. so she squiggles
and wiggles her way into his
mermaid jeans, just like the one
goddess herself, while her elbow
knocks at the door of her xiphoid
process, dislodging the knocker
from the wood, sending it up
through her fleshy pink lungs,
deep through her heart, internal
thoughts signaling that something
is not quite right, and the flashers
open and close their coats in slow
progression, right between her
eyes, and she crosses them to see
her entirety in a split . . . second
, third, fourth grade and when she
had braces on all her front teeth
and the lenses behind which pupils
laughed and mocked, behind which
she cried and hid blackboard eraser
dust -- oh, these teenage years have
so much for which to live, and yet
the seeping out of organs into
flaccid bags of tissue, flapping
empty in her chest, become
the death of her, finally.