Hunter S Thompson held hands with death
The bony fingers wrapped over his own
Resting on the trigger of a gun pressed to his head
Bang: blood went everywhere
Found by his son with dead eyes and cold to the touch

Sylvia Plath laid her head on deaths lap
Inside of an oven with the gas turned on
She took deep breaths and starved for oxygen
Carbon monoxide filled her lungs
Found by a nurse with blue lips and a still chest

David Foster Wallace reached up to kiss the lips of death
A rope worn as a necklace
He let his body hang as his face turned blue
Found on his patio with a broken neck and a broken heart

I too am a writer and they are scared for me to reach for death
I long for their embrace as a razor across my wrists
Writers are always torn apart trying to be too many people at once
So let them find me without a spark of life or an ounce of blood left inside

but even the reverberating echo of the crowd
does not stop the ache of your chest
or fill the empty space of your arms at night
the flickering of the lamp on and off like the passing seasons
or the ringing of a phone that no one will pick up
can't quell the fact that you do not want to be alone tonight
or any night
so find the men in the corners of the room
the ones who need your company as much as you need theirs
and pray that you are not just a trophy to go on their shelf
a memory of the time they spent the night in your bed
hide the regret in your eyes behind all the remains of the lines of coke
and the empty glasses scattered on your table
please
do not forget
when you have everything
sometimes
you still do not have anyone