Choices

Of course I had choices.

Just as the boy whose father gives him his first gram to sell has a choice.
Just as the girl in love with an older boy and left pregnant has a choice.
Just as the son expected to love a girl or a daughter expected to love a boy has a choice.
I had choices.
And I made them.

A girl chooses to dress that way, she’s asking for it, she wants it.
So I chose to give it to her.

A man chooses Mohammed or Buddha instead of Jesus, he wants damnation.
So I chose to send him to it.

Now I “get” to choose how I die.
The choice is limited; not really a choice at all.
If I had a real choice, I’d choose fast, sure – a bullet between the eyes.
But that’s cruel, too cruel for them to do, to see.
I can go any way I want, as long as it’s one of two.
So I’ll choose.

Do I choose the cold, hard steel of the needle?
The bite of a metal horsefly in my elbow,
My heart racing with the gypsy’s knowledge of the time of my death,
My veins drinking a cocktail deemed too inhumane to use on dogs?

If I’m lucky, I won’t feel it, and I’ll be gone in 30 seconds.
If not:
            Muscles go slack
            Face unable to express the
            Burning in my lungs
            Unable to draw breath
            Heart drum beating
            Faster and faster until
            The weight in my chest
            The pain in my arm
            Expression still serene so
            The audience won’t see.

Or do I choose the rough scales of rope slithering around my neck?
Shackles helping gravity weigh me down,
Cable stringing me up like a fish on a line,
My eyes bulging like a caught fish too.

If I’m lucky, my neck will break, and I’ll be gone in 30 seconds.
If not:
            Muscles spasm
            Eyes widen to express the
            Burning in my lungs
            Unable to draw breath
            Feet dangling, kicking
            Dancing to the drum of
            Pounding heart until
            I look like the photographs
            In history books used as
            Examples of hate.