She went down to the bridge to jump, but then
She thought, perhaps, she wasn’t dressed quite right.
The sweatshirt she had owned since she was ten
Was not what she should wear on her last night.
Her eyeliner would run, she realized too,
And stain her swollen, frozen, violet lips.
She wanted to look beautiful and new,
Not ugly, with her clothes and skin all ripped.
And so she drove home, knowing in her heart—
Her life had nothing to do with her clothes.
She was not sad enough to play the part—
She had the strength to beat her nagging lows.
She’d make, she thought with a determined breath,
Her life as perfect as she’d wished her death.