Out to kill myself,
a dead woman’s spirit
was following me closely behind,
ready to take this body as soon
as I left.

Her warmth reached me
and my body went numb.
Her name was Caroline.
She came from under a garden
she used to water for a living.
“Leave” she said, aggressively,
trying to force me out.

Prayers gave me little comfort,
she squeezed the air out of my lungs.
Poor Caroline, I thought,
she needs me.
“I will help you” I said,
feeling her forcefulness was grief.

Later that day I regretted my offer.
“that’s not the way,” I wrote,
and with that piece of paper
I lit the oven’s flame.