The Pool by Pamela Jean Street Dunn

What would it feel Like
To with a sharp Knife
Gently slit my wrists
and watch my Pain and Sorrow
Drip Away
To see the Suffering slowly Seep
Finally releasing my Soul

To contemplate the variety of tools to do the job.

The old carbon steel blade with it's pits and scars,

Broken wooden Handle, an old favorite of mine,

The Stainless steel Case hunting knife and its leather scabbard

a present from days past when the love was still fresh and now,

its keen blade so nice and sharp and the haft so easy to hold,

with either the cuts would be painless and bold

length wise not across as the sinews otherwise would be severed.

and the task would not be complete and too slow would be the flow.

Live or dead, either way, I am dead to my granddaughter.

This way would save the mother her nasty lie and make it all too true.

To die before Pamela is fully born, Oh God must I cry and cry.

A rifle is way too quick and messy besides,

perhaps a nice group of pills, and lie down to sleep and dream of favorite things,

A hike in mountains and a lovely sunset or maybe a final sail on an old boat of mine

alone no one to bother me ever again, to sail into the west and stand upon the deck and watch the suns lowly sink and to know that when i sleep it will be to never wake.

To sail into eternity with a peaceful setting on my mind.

Washed clean of all of my pain and sorrow, finally rid of those that doubt my being. Would they feel sorrow , maybe briefly, but then they have no heart or soul. What keeps a Pammie alive , God I don't know, the love for my own true daughter, my firstborn. She has done no wrong to me and I would do none to her nor bring her hurt . My grand daughter , I would not have her go through her life, knowing that her beloved Poppa took her own existence, judged it worthless and cast it up on a rubbish heap with pills or knives.

Oh god oh god oh god what pain and sorrow I face.

I cannot remain the male and stay even a little sane.

I cannot yet make the change as it is not time.

I must, I must, I must release Pammie when I can and let her be free.

She is Me and I am Her and we are one.

The male is there and most probably always will be a persistent memory of years past that cannot be denied.

Oh god, Oh god forgive me for I have done no sin, to want to be the one I am, Oh god Oh god please take my hand and lead me ,

do not make Pamela stand alone.

A crying Pamela Jean.