Jul 2016
warning: suicide, graphic descriptions
"I forgive you for what you did not do."
Anne Sexton
The sterility will crush me. The whiteness will **** in through my nose and ears and consume me when the room implodes, if it could. But it cannot. I wrote to tell you it is so lonely desolate and so cold. There are people here but they are as lost in death as they were in life. All the jumpers go to rooms where they are eternally falling all the squashers go to the crushing room where walls like the southbound 1 train during rush hour kiss constantly and the ribs are broken, contorted put together again and there is no clean up crew that isn't getting paid enough for this and no cynical commuter fathers telling their children they are sorry they were late but there was a suicide at the 66st stop.
The drowners live in a soggy blue haze where they gasp for air and the pill takers have it easy. They always have a stomachache nothing more; and they faint over and over again giving them rest what they wanted anyways. I wanted to let you know you have probably walked into my room and seen the stupid polite carrion of myself. I trust you have read my note and I trust you have told your parents screaming on the phone and this isnt happening.
I trust you've delayed to call the paramedics and ended up calling them 20 minutes later than you should because you knew I was dead- the cold paste of my wrist was just too true blue and it reminds you of that ring you got me when we were young and said it promised something.
We listened to I Left My Heart in San Francisco that night in my suburban American Craftsman. Neither of us have ever been but I liked the line about being left alone in Manhattan because that's how I felt often I never told you this once I got there though. You've combed my hair that you always said reminded you of gold-leaf and you've punched out the wall because you said some stuff or maybe didn't that one time and you're ****** about it. The neighbors have heard your keening and wondered what is going on.
You've stiffened my collar so as to hide the marks and put my body down but nothing will hide the marks even long after my body attempts to rot but can't by way of embalming as I sleep in the graveyard I told my mother I wished to be buried in when I was 15.
The victims of garrote are constantly choking and our necks break constantly. Our throats gasp but we cannot get air. To get into heaven I must make my peace with the life I had on earth. But I will not. I wish I had not thrown out my pills.
"I forgive you for what you did not do."
Anne Sexton
The sterility will crush me. The whiteness will **** in through my nose and ears and consume me when the room implodes, if it could. But it cannot. I wrote to tell you it is so lonely desolate and so cold. There are people here but they are as lost in death as they were in life. All the jumpers go to rooms where they are eternally falling all the squashers go to the crushing room where walls like the southbound 1 train during rush hour kiss constantly and the ribs are broken, contorted put together again and there is no clean up crew that isn't getting paid enough for this and no cynical commuter fathers telling their children they are sorry they were late but there was a suicide at the 66st stop.
The drowners live in a soggy blue haze where they gasp for air and the pill takers have it easy. They always have a stomachache nothing more; and they faint over and over again giving them rest what they wanted anyways. I wanted to let you know you have probably walked into my room and seen the stupid polite carrion of myself. I trust you have read my note and I trust you have told your parents screaming on the phone and this isnt happening.
I trust you've delayed to call the paramedics and ended up calling them 20 minutes later than you should because you knew I was dead- the cold paste of my wrist was just too true blue and it reminds you of that ring you got me when we were young and said it promised something.
We listened to I Left My Heart in San Francisco that night in my suburban American Craftsman. Neither of us have ever been but I liked the line about being left alone in Manhattan because that's how I felt often I never told you this once I got there though. You've combed my hair that you always said reminded you of gold-leaf and you've punched out the wall because you said some stuff or maybe didn't that one time and you're ****** about it. The neighbors have heard your keening and wondered what is going on.
You've stiffened my collar so as to hide the marks and put my body down but nothing will hide the marks even long after my body attempts to rot but can't by way of embalming as I sleep in the graveyard I told my mother I wished to be buried in when I was 15.
The victims of garrote are constantly choking and our necks break constantly. Our throats gasp but we cannot get air. To get into heaven I must make my peace with the life I had on earth. But I will not. I wish I had not thrown out my pills.
