The Meaning of Life

Small gestures of love
keep me alive.
A hug, a kiss, a smile
offered when the avalanche of rejection crescendos to
the point where I can hardly breathe,
let alone write another drop of soul.
When I’m looking at the switchblade and the wrist
and thinking they belong together
small gestures;
a hug, a smile, a kiss….

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[ A reminder: this is FICTION. My suicidal days are long behind me. After all, I get regular doses of hugs and kisses.]