What if the most poetic thing I’ll ever write is my own suicide note?

I want to spread your legs
across my sheets
like waves across a beach
and get you wet enough
for me to dive on in
until the depths of you
I reach.

You wake up and the earth feels like it’s spinning slower
Or maybe the earth is spinning just fine and you’re moving slower
Or maybe the earth is spinning and you’re not part of it

You wake up and the weight of your own body is enough to pull you into the earth’s core

You wake up and your chest feels smaller,
Your breath feels stale and you can’t seem to find fresh air

The distractions fade out and when they become background noise, it’s just you:
You in this bed
You in this room
You in this house on this lot
You in this town in this state
You in this mass of land split by oceans
You in this earth
It’s just you

Being alone is no fun at all
Being alive is...

The dim fluorescent lights that illuminate the section of ties and clothes for 40 year old women. They buzz and if you watch every now and then they flicker.
The people mindlessly strolling down the carpeted isles, checking the clearance section titles ‘ladies blouses’
Every time you turn the corner, your own lonely and decrepit reflection greets you via the full length mirror ******* into the columns.
The particle board ceilings, the circular tables lined with multipacks of men’s underwear, the pointlessness of a store existing solely to accompany browsing zombies
You walk in not needing anything except to fill the extra time you have on a hot day in June. Hoping for anything to keep your mind off of the crushing weight that you need something to distract you from your own fear of being alone.

I **** my self in closets at least 14 times a day