Go for a run.
Nope.
Stare at my desk.
Nope.
Journal. Nope.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Lie in bed.
Sort of.
Curl up. Wake up to a loud ******* guitar.
Knock angrily on a door.
Nope.
Think.
Nope.
Curl up in bed.
Nope.
Wait. Wait some more.
Kind of.
Feel guilt. Feel shame.
Nope.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.

Wait.

I like the idea of you being home.
I'm not always home.
I'm not always thinking of home.
And without home, I'd be lost.
Searching for home.

There's a death inside of me.
And it wants to come out.
Maybe I need to honor and grieve
this death.
Maybe I'm scared of
this death.
A bullet through my ******* head.
What a relief.

And who heals through my suicide?

What part of me wants to die?
Maybe it isn't the physical.
Maybe it is the part of me that causes harm
to myself, others, and nature.

So where do I go?

Perhaps slow down and head back to those forks in the road.
All those many moons ago.
Soften them.
Rearrange them.

I am not me.
I am not
this death.