How would you kill yourself?

Slit your wrists. I think it’s the most poetic, by far the most romantic. Sitting upright in water in a silent claustrophobic space, empty and alone in a sort of sick hedonistic bliss. Draining to a pale white. The silence of the water around disturbed only by mild splashes; drips. The water, transparent, but it changes so subtly, it brings a tear to your eye, its not the pain it’s the colours you try to eat; your colours my colours. The reflection of the solitude fills it – the solitude is the room, and it’s yours. A pale green tinge to powder pink to a bright crimson to a deep red. Your shadow looms over it, your shadow sits behind you. Your life slowly diminishes as you contemplate, reminisce, and wait. How romantic, a morbid bliss.
The whole idea of slicing the vital points with a sharp, raw blade, rust licking its sides it seems spiritual to me - biblical.
You spent your day looking for it; you spend your night coming to terms with it. Your finding it. Then to sit back: luke warm – black - getting colder. You lean forward to find your reflection; you look into his eyes, and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare.

My head feels so heavy.