Maybe she'll get hit by a car.
Maybe she'll be driving a car,
and she'll hit me 80 mph,
and she'll kiss the windscreen goodbye
as she passes me by,
as she leaves this wretched world behind,
as she flies sixty yards across the sky,
hits a pine, snaps her spine,
shuts down her conscious mind,
terrified, as anyone who's about to die
to let go, rather than to paralyze
to know, to decide
to exit life.
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