Why bother.
It is a pointless folly
To try.
Life has no
Inner meaning,
No hope,
No beauty,
Only pain.
If I want to leave,
There are many ways.
I can jump off of my roof,
Diving head first
To our cement sidewalk.
I can slice open my wrists and
Cut my hamstrings
So that I cannot
Move,
Simply lying there,
Bleeding out.
I can take a full glass,
Enough to get me drunk,
Then another
Then another
Until I am too far gone,
Destroyed by alcohol,
But mostly by myself.
I could grab some rope,
Like the character in my book,
With all his little details
Based off of me,
Tie it into a noose and
Swing it around the ceiling fan
In my room,
Tying it tight as I
Stand upon my
Woven blue office chair,
Then sticking my neck
Through the hole and
Kicking away the chair,
Kicking away the pain.
I could stab myself,
Only once,
Aiming for my neck,
Hoping to sever the cord
That keeps me alive.
But all of that,
Save maybe the alcohol,
Seems like far too much trouble
To set up.
It’s too hard to
Tie the rope,
Sever the skin,
Or stab in
Through my neck.
Perhaps I could just walk up,
Up to my room,
Up upon my bed,
Rolling open the window,
Crawl out and
Make a small jump out to the roof,
Scrambling to hold on.
Maybe then I’d find
Some glory in the struggle,
Some faint reason to live.
But more likely I’d simply
Cut out the middle man,
Save myself from the pain,
And leap off,
Face-first,
Towards the solid ground.
I want to die,
But without the effort
Of killing myself.
I don’t think
I’ll do something
To end my own life,
But if a car was coming
Straight at me,
At a killing speed,
I don’t think
I’d jump out
Of the way.
