Death.

It is not the bullet
that doth
steal away life,
but our own bodies:

their inability
to keep us alive
takes life from us.

If I were to take my
own life,
I would take it twice:
once with a will;
second, with a wound
unable to be heal'd.

Ultimately,
I shall kill myself -
my body will,
at least;

my heart will say:
'that's it,' and
my mind will say:
'okay!'

My body will give the order
to kill my soul,
and my soul will remain deaf,
for it is not separate:

one day,
a part of me I deem separate
from 'my self'
will take the whole
with it
on its journey
to further confusion.

It is not the bullet that causes death:
it merely inspires it.