I imagine that at some point before I **** myself, that I'll have the indignation to jot down a somewhat substantial list of all my usernames and passwords.
I find it romantic to picture people performing digital
archaeology on my life, logging in to my various websites
after I'm dead,
and trying to decipher when and why it all went wrong.
Trying to figure out what led me to making the decision
of suicide, what drove me to some kind of psychological
breaking point.

That indignation,
to think that I'd be worthy of such a
romantic notion,
is rather sickening to the me that sits here
still alive.
To the me
clacking away at some gaudy mechanical keyboard.

What makes me so royal?
Why would I be worthy of
an archaeological, metaphorical dig?
People die constantly.
I'd just be one more.
One more forgotten story,
one more unfulfilled potential.

One more
"gone too soon."

No one gives a ****,
not really.
People love me, sure.
Family, some friends.
A few ex-lovers.
Everyone has their own life to live.
I'm not as important as I think I am,
neither are you.
Or anyone, for that matter.
It's just human nature getting the best of us
that makes us think otherwise.

People have a right to go on with their lives,
I guess just as people have a right to choose death.
I'd hate to get in the way of either one.
It's a fool's errand to imagine I even could,
or would.

Maybe there will be a little list of my passwords,
reeking of self-righteousness.
maybe there will just be a pile of ashes
with a air of a final clarity,
of a 'coming to my senses.'

Maybe I'll live forever, I mean...
So far, so good.

Persistence may sometimes be sickening,
yet never quite as sickening
as suicide.

You can sprint at the sun
for as long as you want,
but you'll never outrun
your shadows.

Wind whipping through naked limbs,
plastic bags like tumbleweeds.

Solace under an overcast sky.

Billows bellow out from the candied sunrise,
brief beauty unfolds in rippling hues
of taupe and ochre and violet.

I watch alone,
as the commuters argue over lanes.
As trucks trundle past.
I enjoy the parallax as
the chuffing dragon's breath
of their air brakes
grows, and then fades.

I watch alone as light begins to bathe all.
An upside-down ocean. A gorgeous abyss.

I watch alone, yet
I'd like someone
to share this morning with.

I feel so

compelled

to bash your head in
with my love.

When you're dead,
I'll fashion a paintbrush
from a lock of your hair.

I'll paint you on the ceiling
in violent shades of burgundy.

I'll lick the bristles clean.

I'll paint my taste buds
with the vibrant flavors

of your love.

I'll craft a cradle from your bones,
and wrap it taught with your dermis.

Your

marrow

will seep out,

like the

love

from my heart.

I'll keep you.
Forever.
A shrine.
A memento.
A collectable.

A macabre reminder
of my

love.

She bought this light green chair at an estate sale, with a red pillow as an accoutrement she smiled like a young child; proud of her find, all I could do was smile back, afraid to hurt her feelings, you hate it she said, I can tell-would it make you want it more if I told you it was from Ernest Hemingway's estate, such a find- I  was in a bidding war with another woman, I purchased it for you

its been a couple years hence, sitting in my light green chair, she knew it was the perfect chair, to do my writing, she would smile, if she could see me here, shades of the writer that I am

time to move on, all the memories left- I sold everything; never though, would I sell the light green chair with the red pillow, as it reminds me of her always


By Michael Perry