Hands

I watched your mother die, 1995. She sleeps like Hemingway, you'll go like Sylvia and I will die like Elliott Smith, even if I don't like him. I, I just want his hands

And I thought about who I was then: All the songs that I wrote when I was 17 and how they led to the Virgin Mary, and how she led to David Foster Wallace. His hands- it takes some courage to take your own life into your hands. I want the courage, I want to end it. I want my head stuck in the oven. I want a knife and I want a shotgun, so I can be your object of desire

Because it gets pathetic when you cannot end it. I want the courage, I want to end it