killing myself slowly and softly

no, I refuse time and destiny to
be the ones that murder me.

I deny the sudden and alarming 
knock of death on my door 
to knock out the air from my lungs, 
to sing the last poem of my book of songs

instead, I disguising as death 
knock on my own door,
to train, learn diligently 
to kill myself slowly
every day at the rate of 
one sure thought and one beloved identity, 
but I as death in the garb of a clown, 
to kill myself softly 
with the balm of laughter and lunacy
to offset the discomfort and pain
of bleeding out the idea 
that this body is more precious, 
my breathing more auspicious 
than what I will leave as my legacy 
on how to live and die in each breath.

Photo by tony hernandez on Unsplash