Enter Scene:

A boy rests his head on his left fist,
His elbow propped up on the black IKEA desk.
The desk is worn, several quarter-sized holes and dents
Pocking the boy’s writing surface.
The worst holes are covered by the yellow legal pad he writes in.
He taps a disposable pen against his chin as he thinks.

“To whom it may concern,” he starts, pausing.
The pen hovers above the comma as he considers,
Should it be capitalized? Too formal? Change it to “Dear”?
He tears away the page, tossing it into the trash can to his left.
It joins the other crumpled pages, his last attempts.
First, second, third, fourth, fifth draft suicide notes.

He brings his head away from his fist and cracks his knuckles.
The note has to be perfect. It’s his final words.
His last hurrah. His confessional script to everyone he’s ever known.
Overthinking the words, desperate to make them perfect.
The same desperation that has him writing the note to begin with,
But so long as he’s dissatisfied with the note, he’s safe.