The perfect suicide note

When I go I will not leave a note
because I think (this moment)
If you really want to know
I'll leave my notebooks open.

Trapped.

 I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe here I can't breathe.

Smoker's Corner

You were right; you were right.

I slipped out of the house and into the night, padding silently into a driveway with my lighter and cigarette clutched between two fingers. The glowing orb at the end was my light at the end of this tunnel, though I looked away in a hasty attempt to hide my escape once more. I found no solace in the smoke tumbling like satin curtains down to my lungs. Instead, my mind filled with a strangled fear that perhaps all I was in the current moment was nothing like who I was meant to be.

Disregarding my tight black dress, I sat down on the grungy cement and pulled my knees to my chest, staring at that blank spot in front of me. With the world spinning away at an alarming rate, I whispered, Who am I? Who am I? Then to the cigarette staining my fingers, Why haven't you killed me yet?


You were right. All I've ever wanted was a quick escape, but into a world darker than the one in which I currently reside. The light won't have me.

Most Beautiful Place

Midnight, stars out, rooftop in Mexico. Club music beats from down the street. Barbed wire surrounds the property. But the red clay rooftop is taller than that, and warm, and I stay there for well over an hour while the air drips with crickets.

Into Darkness

"I've forgotten," you say in rhythm with your heartbeat.

And I want to ask what, what you've forgotten, but the dying light in your eyes tells me you wouldn't know. The dying light in your eyes fades with the sun, and suddenly we're thrown into darkness, and you laugh. But you aren't laughing. You're crying. And I cry with you.

"I've forgotten," you say in whimpering sobs.

"So have I," I whisper. "So has the world."

Somewhere along the way, you lose sight of who you are.

It doesn't strike you as love, but there's a physical pain in your chest every time you lay eyes on her and you start to wonder. What you always assumed to be infatuation, possibly even a strong lust, may have exceeded your expectations and transformed (slowly, over the years, of course) into something bigger. Something... better?

Love.

Cue the sappy music, the array of cartoon forest animals, and lace doilies. You question the doilies, those odd white pieces that litter your grandmother's house, and their position in every love story. Maybe they show up to distract you from what comes next.

Hurt.

The moment she meets your eyes and a thousand apologetic words drift out into the stiff air between you, only you never really wanted to know the truth behind her tangled excuses. Your words make no sound, and she takes a step backwards, lengthening the quickly-expanding gap between the both of you. If it was her who created it, then you scared her into walking away. If it was you who pushed her to leave, then it was she who took the first step. You watch her go and an ache strangles your heart, screaming in its silent way to go after her, to let her know how you truly feel. There it is again.

Love.

Then hurt.

Then love.

You close your eyes for a heartbeat, pinching your lip between your teeth. It's not raining, but you wish it was, to hide the wet on your cheeks. She hasn't turned back. You haven't stepped forward.

Love.

Then hurt.

Then love.

An alarm goes off in your chest:

You've forgotten the sound of her voice.

It's a simple realisation but it hits you full-force and you think to yourself, that's going to leave a bruise. As if ideas are solid entities, you muse with a half-hearted chuckle, but it will most definitely leave a plumb-coloured mark deep beneath your skin. Unseen to the outer world, but the pain is still very much there.

You're in bed, this is the second realisation that hits you, and on any other day before That Day it wouldn't mean anything. But it does. It means you're in bed, and the moment you roll over, her side will be as empty as you left it the night before. You don't want to open your eyes. You don't want to stretch your arms and hit the cold, vacant pillow next to you that most likely holds a few of her discarded hairs. Maybe it will smell like her, like the soft breeze that filled the room whenever she walked by, you hope. It's an empty wish, this time. You know rather well by now that her smell has disappeared from everything she once touched. Her side of the bed is now just half a mattress, half her favourite pair of white cotton sheets that you've taken to buying in bulk, and that fluffy white pillow you still can't bring yourself to touch.

With the heaviest heart since yesterday, as hearts grow lighter with each passing night, you force yourself to sit upright and turn your head slightly to the side. She isn't there. You can't wake her up with a kiss. She won't greet you with a mumbled morning, gorgeous.

There is no solace in seeing her bathrobe draped across the bedroom chair, exactly as she left it twoyears:sevenmonths:oneweek:threedays:sixhours ago. You strain your ears to hear her calling out those last words, the he's on the roof, he said he's sorry, I need to stop him that you thought you'd never forget, but all that echoes through your head is your own voice replaying the same speech.

You've forgotten the sound of her voice. First was the exact colour of her hair after a shower, then came the pleasant sigh she exhaled while you held her, and later was how she felt in your arms. Her voice was the last you had of her. The last moment. Her parting words. Yet no matter how hard you try, from this day on it will always be your own voice echoing back at you.