Why shouldn`t

Why shouldn't
I jump from my tall tower of sadness and psycho chaos,
arms out birdwise, shoulder blades creasing,
and fall spishity splash to my death?
Is this really Friday that I want to pull a Plath and stick my head in a gas oven?
My Ted wouldn't write a book.
He couldn't.
Should I really and truly take my 20 long fingers around my throat and close them in the ending prayer?
Oh, but I couldn't!
Tomorrow is Saturday said black.
I am feverish and wanting mostly over anything- including my thoughts of a lovely Friday suicide- to take the huge canvas painted in Tracy trampy blues- to look like a what is it? Parrot?-and smash it into pieces like the crackers in your red soup.
I would so much like to die
but I am thinking of a fetus,
a particular fetus:
yours.
You were once the shaft's spermy fish
that squished into your frail old mothers vagina
and swam on into her egg.
You were the gold fish in a bowl.
A fisted flowering flimsy fishy fetus and you developed into a man.
I am thinking of my razor blade in the tiny top drawer
but, I am also thinking of dress up with red high heeled shoes and a wedding gown.
Oh, wouldn't that make a lovely song!
What if you were to munch upon a junebug? You would surely die. It's April. Not June.
There is a snowstorm outside.
I could chase into a maze a little boy and then sit and freeze trying to find him.
 I would be a hard frosty little dead cupcake.
I must wear pink for this! A pink dress with white lace and a big bow.
But I'll have to sew it and that takes time.
I want to die now, this Friday night.
Gee, remember the house in the plains with the half-black school
and the thick wool under my sheet
< the sweat> the sweat> the thick wool stink>
Oh I have to grow old and die of my age.
I'll have a chill and want that thick sheep over me.
I have yet to cook my first turkey! Oh too soon to die!
Turkey dinner tomorrow?
We'll see.