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Alaska Nov 2013
Have you ever wondered who will come try to save you from killing yourself?
Or, furthermore, who will be the person to hear your dying words?
Or, furthermore, who will read your suicide note?
Or, furthermore, who will show up to your funeral with a tear in their eye once you've gone?
Have you ever wondered who truly cares about you enough to do all these things?

Have you ever wondered who is going to cry when they find out you're dead
and who is going to be just fine?
Have you ever wondered what will become of the ones you love once you've moved on?
Will they suffer in turmoil and angst,
Or will they live on as if you never left
or possibly, as if you never even came?
What about once they find out how you died? Will they suffer then?

What if your death causes another death?
What if the person you thought your whole life would never love you back
was thinking the same about you?
What if you being gone is too much to bear?
How would you feel if you knew you dying would **** someone else?
Would you still do it without any regrets?

What about now?
If you had all this information stored up in your pocket,
would it be enough to throw away the razor?
Drop the knife?
Unload the gun?
Take the noose off the ceiling fan?
Back away from the cliff?
Could you survive simply because you understood how much people really care about you?
Or would it not be enough?

It's unfortunate that we don't learn how much we are loved until after we are too dead to know.

{alaska}
Alaska Nov 2013
The smoke entwines itself around and through your soft hair
It circles around your small nose
It traces the outline of your gentle facade
It laces through your fingertips
It makes a nest on your t-shirt, and rests there for the night
It cuddles up close to your smooth, pale skin
It warms you up on a chilly November evening
It makes you feel loved.

Oh, how I wish I were smoke.

Maybe then,
I could entwine
And circle
And trace
And lace
And nest
And cuddle
And warm
And love
You too.

{alaska}
Alaska Nov 2013
At first, I felt like an invader. A trespasser in these spirits’ home.
The stillness swirled around me, as if it were trying to dizzy me away.
The tombstones didn’t want me there. I was abhorrent.

But then, I felt a kindling inside of me.
And as I sat in solitude under the withered old tree between the graves at 2am,
I couldn’t help but feel like the tombstones were my friends.
I couldn’t help but feel like a tombstone myself.

All I was was a symbol for what I had once been, a memory of who I once was.
What was inside of me, though, was just ashes of the past.
Sometimes people visited, dropping off a flower of hope or love or anguish,
But once that flower died, I was dead.

I started to cry.
I cried for these people, these new friends of mine.
I cried for their pasts.
I cried for my own.

And in that moment, I realized,
I was meant to be a tombstone.
People were meant to visit my grave. People were meant to cry for me.
I wasn’t meant to have a happy life. I was meant to have a memorable death.
I was meant to transform into a tombstone, for the world to visit and cry for.

And that was okay with me.

{alaska}

— The End —