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Tag Archives: suicide

Blossoms

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Her front yard was always scattered with blossoms from the neighbors tree. They often offered to rake them up for her, but she always declined. It was like seeing a sea of white and pink, she told me. It was like being in a dream.

Her eyes were always lidded and I think that was her way of living in a half-dream state. The real world was never really her friend. I’m not sure if I really ever was, either.

I remember driving up to the vast white yard, her front door wide open. I found her sleeping in the filed of blossoms; she had been laid out like an angel. I got her back inside but she never seemed to wake up. She was half-asleep. Like always.

It was surprise, of course, but somehow not very surprising at all. She looked just like she always did, like a sleeping angel on the ground, surrounded by her white flower petals. I could feel my chest constrict when I saw her as though I knew before I even touched her. Before I saw the blue tint to her lips, or how her skin was pale, so pale.

The tears took a while to come. So did any emotion, really.

The ambulance was silent when it rolled to a stop. The whole day was like a silent film. I wanted to change the channel but I couldn’t. I stayed seated by the snow angel of blossoms when people entered and exited the house.

They said they had found an empty pill bottle.

I just wish she would wake up. I’ve always been waiting for her to wake up.

Wake up, I pleaded in my head.

Please, wake up.

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Little Secrets

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His legs hang over the side of the railing and his eyes stare straight ahead. Between his fingers is burning death and he takes every drag slow and meticulously, willing it’s magic to work faster.

Bright lights shine from down below and he contemplates his options. Guiltless chance or a surefire suicide. Maybe it could look like an accident.

Smoke gushes from between parted lips and he’s grown to like the taste.

He wonders how many flowers have grown in his graveyard chest but thinks maybe he’s barren. It feels like he’s barren. It feels like all he is, is death waiting to happen. Eyelids shut tightly and he wonders why it has yet to happen.

One foot slips behind the other and a shoe dangles precariously above the rushing traffic. He thinks of this as picking petals off of roses; to, or to not.

Instead of letting chance make it’s mind up, he takes both shoes off and lays them beside him. Knowing they’re safely next to him gives him a false comfort and an unsettling ache.

His mind wanders into the crevices of his thoughts that he blocks off in the daylight, the caution tape torn off. There are dark bags beneath his eyes and he can barely remember the last time he slept. The ache never wanes and the tired never gets comforted by sleep.

Burned to the end, he flicks his cigarette to the ground and slowly, so slowly, he lets himself rise to the challenge of not actually jumping when he can. Instead he turns and grabs his shoes, stepping down from the metal railing and letting himself enter into a more sturdy ground.

 

Not tonight, he thinks.

 

Never tonight.


Tainted

Folding laundry and thoughts so fluid, so normal
Like it’s a regular thing to think about, like it’s not so scary
Isn’t every breath terrifying? Isn’t waking up every morning hard?
So folding laundry and maybe it is normal:
Thinking of the cowards way out
Because who needs honor in a world so corrupt? Who cares about your next breath?


Sweet Cinnamon and Sour Lemons

Sitting in a diner, it’s a little late and the waiter’s a little distracted but he checks on me every few minutes when he pauses from his phone for a minute. Then he’ll look back down and I’ll continue either looking or sipping at the coffee that’s too black and too bitter but not add anything to it because that’s not why I got this coffee.

I don’t smoke but I wish I had a cigarette just to finish this look I’m imagining I have right now. The black coffee is a little like mud and I cringe when it touches my tongue and I’m glad the waiter hasn’t seen this. I’m picking at a few cold fries I ordered thirty minutes ago and I hear footsteps to the side of me.

A figure walks into my view and now there you are, sitting across from me like it was just yesterday. The sight of you makes my breath catch in my throat and the glint in your eye is still there and it makes my neck heat up and my heart skip a beat.

“How have you been?” You ask with your sweet, low voice. And I tell you I’ve been fine, I’ve missed you.

A soft smile licks your lips and your folded hands are placed on the table, a little nearer to my side and so I put my own folded hands on the table as well. You tell me you’ve missed me, too, and my hair’s gotten so long. Do I like it?

“I’m still getting used to it,” I admit with a breath. I don’t tell you I’m still getting used to you being gone, too. I think you hear the unsaid words anyway when your eyes drop from mine for just a moment. Then they’re up again, staring into mine and your smile grows into something beautiful and sincere and you lean in a little closer still. Your hands are a few inches from mine and I pretend not to notice but I let my fingers creep closer, too.

“Hey, you remember when,” and then you’re gone into old memories and I try to keep my laughs quiet but you and I both know how difficult that is for me. My eyes close and my cheeks get pink and when I open them again your eyes have soft wrinkles around them and you’re looking at me like I’m something special.

No matter how many stories you tell and no matter how much I laugh, no matter how close our hands get and no matter how much further we lean in, we’re still two worlds away. I let myself get pulled by the air around you and I smell a sweet warmth like cinnamon and when my eyes dip down to the table between us, I notice our fingers are barely an inch away. The breath in my throat catches and your words slowly trail off because now you’ve noticed too.

Tears prick my eyes and I try to swallow the lump that’s newly formed. “It’s not fair,” I manage to squeak out between trembling lips. Your jaw clenches and your eyes get serious. “I miss you.” Both of us are looking at the closeness to our hands and we both notice when mine shift just a little bit closer. Just a little further, but not touching. Never touching.

You sigh but you don’t move your hands away. You don’t lean back and in fact, I think you move forward still. “I’m so sorry,” you say so quietly, “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I wish I could – “ and your lift your hand ever so slightly and it passes right through mine. A dam somewhere in my chest bursts and I try to choke back a sob.

“I wish I could take it back, just to touch you one last time.”

And then you’re gone and all I have left are the spits of my heart dripping around me and the cold black coffee and the cold leftover fries.

The cinnamon that was once in the air surrounding me is gone and is now replaced by sour, bitter lemon. A regret so strong I could taste it and that’s the only sign I have that you were ever really here.


Fifty-Five

I can’t hear her voice in my head any more. I can barely picture her face and if it wasn’t for the picture I have of her, all of the memories of her would be blurred.

I told myself I could never do what she did, I could never hurt my mother like that. I couldn’t rip the hearts of those who loved me into terrible pieces, but with enough time passing and the memories starting to fade, I wonder how long it would take.

How long would it take for my sisters to forget my voice, my face? How long would it take for the tears to stop flowing at my memory and how long would it be before no one could remember what it felt like to hold me in their arms?

When the breeze goes through your hair, how long would it take to not think of it as me passing by?

My body aches at this young age and I tell them I think I’m dying. They laugh and shake their heads but they don’t realize it’s true. They don’t realize that when I say I’m planning on 55, it’s a hope that I even make it that far.

I told myself I could never do that to my mother – it sounds less and less true the more that young face fades from my head.


Strawberry Bubblegum

She chews strawberry bubblegum

Her favorite drink is lemonade

Her lips are always pink, never red

And she wears mascara

With a little bit of blush

If you saw the inside of her thighs

The red marks might be alarming

Her pillowcase is stained black

From the makeup running down her face

Her fingers type on her phone

Marking down reasons she should stay

And reasons she should go

But the reasons to stay

Are becoming more and more scarce

But they’re still important

Eventually she thinks she might not care

So that bottle stays under her bed

Untouched, but always there

And she waits for the caring to go

But maybe she’ll first run out of

Her strawberry bubblegum


Hypocritical

I think it’s kind of funny, how our appreciation for people often come out when it’s too late to do any good.

“God, can’t you just picture that smile? Didn’t you just love that smile?”

“Oh, I loved what he had to say! He was brilliant. I would have read books by him just to know more.”

All the while they’re gone possibly, very possibly, by their own hand. It’s like we don’t see the sadness right in front of us. We don’t see how those we think will always be with us, will always be by our side, need more than what they get. God, you love them so much. So much. Surely they know. Surely they know how so many love them. But often, they don’t.

And isn’t it kind of funny that we know how hard it is just to wake up in the morning? That we know just how hard it is just to get up, brush those teeth, maybe put on makeup or brush your hair, and yet, nothing. So caught up in us, in the we that we see in the mirror that, why, no one could ever feel this way, either! No one could possibly know how this feels! They smile too much to be sad. But, you smile, too, don’t you?

But it’s too much to say something nice. To actually show that you have a heart because someone could so easily trample it. It’s not normal to be nice, is it? No. That’s too soft. So we’ll keep all of those lovely words until their gone, and, oh, how much it hurts to miss them.

You can imagine the people I have stored away in my mind. The faces in picture frames or on television screens. Pictures in black and white or in color.

But don’t we know that often the people who smile the brightest are the most hurt? Don’t we know that those who laugh so loud, so hard, or want the best for everyone, often struggle the most?

My selfish thought is that I wish I wasn’t such a hypocrite.