I still remember
the first time
I thought about death.

Or— dying, in itself.

I remember
how my hands
gripped the wooden handle,
little fingers
trembling
from the intensity.

I was—
quite literally,
holding on
for life.

I remember
how curious
I was—
how my thoughts
raced
for endless miles.

What would happen to me?
Would it be messy?
How would it feel?
How bad does it hurt?
Would anyone miss me?
Am I too young?
Will it get better?

And so,
I put away the knife.

I climbed to the top
of my bunk bed,
each step heavy,
like I was
clinging to life.

And I continued
my cartoons.