everyone is already asleep
the pills seem to stare right into your soul
you grab the blade,
the cold edge hitting your skin
almost tenderly.
as the thick, dark liquid stains the sheets,
you open the bottle with your shaky hands.
and take them out
one by one.
it tells you to hurry up.
you quickly consume every single one,
before you could regret it.
you write a few notes, texts, explaining why you'll be gone,
possibly forever.
they don't have to know that though.
you can already feel the headache coming,
the regret slowly creeping in,
you pass out.
you wake up a few hours later,
confused,
the realization finally hits you.
you don't want to listen,
but the pill whispers:
"again."

Gaslight yourself.
Into thinking you're important,
Happy,
Normal.
That thin line of denial
Being the only thing keeping you alive.
They would miss you if you were gone, wouldn't they?

I always dreamed
Of dying in a special way.
People worried,
Mother guilty for what she did,
The awkward school assembly about a dead student.
Someone trying to stop me from ending it all.

Yet now i sit in my room,
Reading the texts from earlier,
The pretty lies, saying it's "just a break".
A break i won't come back from.

Spring came and went quickly this year,
a brief headache as the air
pressure shifted and then
the sun came in. And then
the Summer came in.
Too hot and too dry. Too busy.
The hustle and bustle of
sweaty people who wear too
little and talk too much.
This season is no good
This season is no good at all.

It will be a bad day today.
A bad week perhaps.
A bad month. Too hot and
too dry. Demanding.
Taxing. The machines
not working, the people
not stopping. Hate. Hate. Hate.
It is ungodly how much hate
one can feel towards the
changing of the skies,
and all who abide by it.
Hate in the nanoangatrom,
unequal to one one-billionth.

There is no season shorter than Summer,
not here. Spring and Autumn
stagger themselves: a birth
and a death, spread out across
two months or more.
And Winter lingers, clings;
it doesn’t easily let go.
Summer is Summer once
and then it’s done.
Summer is Summer for a day
a week, a month,
and then it’s not.
And yet it stretches.
An eon, an age,
eternal, hot and dry,
unable to sleep; unable
to stay awake,
a sort of purgatory –
long days and short nights.
No end. No end. No end.

And so, wait, a day, a week,
a month, on and
on, over and over,
until around comes Autumn.
The leaves browning,
the blossoms falling.
A decay that spreads,
the beautiful kind:
soft on the eyes,
on the soul. Breathable.
A breathable decay.
October again; slow, calm.
Blossoms falling. Slow. Slow.

And a thought, soft
like the growing clouds and
the promise of snow,
a thought that lingers, that
fades in, that leaves a stain:
    if today is not a good day
    then make it one.
The trees are bare now, there’s
room for more. Room
for you, to hang
and dangle, snap and
crumple, to drift gently down
like falling blossom slowly
into a heap on the ground,
buried in pink or white,
buried in the death of Summer,
in the death of Spring.

Suicide looks prettier at night

it convinces you that
The street lights
Will die
With you

Whispers in your ear
All the things you beg
To not hear

It reminds you of the things
You can never forget
Drills it into your skull
Until it's all that's left

It ties you up
Keeps you alone
Cuts off your fingers
And smashes your phone

It leaves you to sit by yourself
in the dark
To watch the stars
Cry themselves to sleep

It puts on some makeup to cover its tears
And speaks with you
about your fears

You tell it everything
How could you not?
It's so pretty and calm
the night sets the scene:

a romantic night

A knife on the table
And pills in the drink
A noose acts as our light
As we chat about things

You share your deepest secrets
And it listens, never talks
Let's you talk until your voice is lost

at the end of the night
It leaves with a kiss
But your still *******
And you start to miss
The company
Of suicide

will you come to my funeral?  
I'd like to imagine that you would.
but you probably won't even know that I'm gone  
until months or years have held me underground

it would be fitting
in some morbid irony
to have our many intersections,
always crossing at bad timings or circumstance,
be punctuated with the greatest chasm of all
the last time that you see me

but at least I won't be there to **** it up
Anymore

I want it to stop.
not anything in particular,
as if one thing could fill me, or fix me
or glue all the cracks that are leaking me out

I want it to stop.
just everything
everything that's inside me

I feel like a void
empty and full of longing,
and a suffocating panic, knowing it will never stop
that I will never be filled and i will stay like this.
until I'm not like this.
because I am not.

so i think about being not
more than being,
and somehow that seems better
and easier, and hopeful

If only some of those comforts,
in words and arms and love,
spoken over me in memoriam
could find their way to me
while they could still find me

perhaps they wouldn't need
to be said at all