Dear mother,
Please do not cry too hard, it is not your fault
That I got rid of myself.
Trying too hard to make you proud,
I ignored reality and the commoness of being,
In fear that my being a typical youth
Might raise your brows. At least,
If I was not normal I could have
Been a rebel. But all I seem to be against
Is the intrusion of sunlight on my mornings.
I became a being of little significance
To the world, a wallflower choked by the
Weeds in your little garden.
My dear Jules*, I think you are a beautiful person
But a terrible liar. I think every time
Your husband loved you enough
To feed you, and bathe you and wipe you off;
You wished he didn’t.
You hate that he had to but you should know
You are more than enough of a person
To admit it. And good God you deserve
Ice cream and walking on the beach
And a day to cry! But you will need him for that too.
Darling, he will need your hand for it too.
I just thought someone should tell you. And
That I survived this long thanks to your emails
About the ducks in your garden
And everyone around you’s Alzheimer’s.
To my best friend, the one
Who started to stop liking good music
And Friday nights in:
You can keep the photo collage of our
Time as friends I never took down from
My living room wall
Since I was still able to look at the pictures
And see the happiness and not the
People I depended on for that happiness.
Really, take it! No one has to know
We forgot to know each other lately.
You were always a person of the world
While I could never seem to climb out
Of my own. For a while now
I’ve been my own keeper, burying myself
Alive under memories and nostalgia while
You grew up, I guess.
Anyway, I wish you all the good luck
You can bear and all the bruises on your
Heart it takes you to learn that you’re
Not his saviour and tequila is not yours.
To all the teachers who influenced me
In my short time alive: Because of you
I appreciate Literature but because of you
I appreciate Literature and that’s not
Making me a lot of money or making me too
Many friends. Thank you.
A big ‘fuck you’ to the boy who didn’t get to break my heart.
I wanted so badly to be known by you, to get felt up
And used by you like all the girls around you did.
But you were too busy being the ideal guy
To pay me any mind.
I know I’m partly to blame, I overcompensated
Your gentry and underplayed my interest. Still.
I hope you feel a tinge of guilt when you hear about this.
A special word of thanks to my neighbour,
Someone Somebody,
Who only ever wanted to know how I was,
When his key didn’t
Unlock his front door fast enough.
If you were some nosy little shit,
You might have walked in on me standing in my window
On the 15th floor of our apartment building,
Ready to fall into the night.
You might have been able to stop me.
Finally, to my colleagues:
I will not miss the random
Conversations at tea and at lunch
About bad television series and how much you
Hate the people you love.
When this body wakes up, I will be dead, and glad
To be rid of this miserable person.
Sincerely,
Old Me.
suicide note
clarity
your coffee has been standing
for so long it has gone cold.
you’re busy trying to explain
why it is better this way.
but all i hear is the sound of your voice
how this will be the last time.
we had to sit outside because you needed to smoke.
as if anyone needs to smoke.
the sweet wrappers you twisted in your fingers
while you talked fly off the table. that image
will stay with me.
and you say its okay, that its been a long time coming.
you’ve left already. Paid for your coffee
because you do not want to owe me anything.
and finally i understood;
my heart did not break loud enough for you.
the pieces did not shatter and cut into you.
but it is in pieces none the less.
vicarious living
You. Are. Killing. Me.
she yelled.
she threw the mail in my face
thick hard envelopes
flew into my face like
a quick gust of wind
quick and harsh.
she said i was doing myself in.
that i was killing her.
my life was starting to have meaning
and she woke up
woke up and did not know who she had been
all these years.
she threw at me all the letters she meant to
but did not send.
about how her everything had collected
into an inconsiderable amount of nothing.
how she had to stay in one place
so i could have somewhere for my letters to collect.
but all i managed when i
picked up the mail she threw at
my face when she yelled
that my hands
were tight around her neck;
were bills and paper cuts.
skin
You wear her on your skin.
Her darkness overshadows your light.
People recognize you as a pair,
And you cannot bear to tell them that she broke your heart, but
your neighbours know.
When you come home with a grocery bag – no groceries; you’ll cry
and curse her angelic name.
You hate the music only
because she taught you how to love dancing.
You wear her on your skin.
You’re unintentionally content with this being,
You live in quiet chaos.
