The Living (from Suicide Month)

[RiverNotch]

The Living


Well, I've always believed in an old dragon axiom: that which does not kill me makes me stranger.

Jesus Christ! These times are just mad – well, I suppose all times are mad, to those with eyes who live in them. Or maybe I'm the mad one – everyone around me seems to be happy. Or at least content. Or at least complacent.

Jesus Christ! Should I tell, should I tell? or should I make like Sylvia Plath again, encase my troubles in poetry? More importantly, how long has it been, since I last encased my troubles in poetry?

Or maybe I should just encase my head in carbon monoxide. Ha! no, too indulgent.

Slit my wrists in a Roman bath? Too grandiose.

Burn myself alive? But what would I protest, and who would listen?

Jump off a building? A simple death, and if the building's tall enough, for a second I'd feel like flying. Before the terror kicks in, the gasp for breath – 

Drowning? Again, that gasp for breath – 

A pistol to the head? Maybe set up like in "The Deer Hunter", or in that Lermontov book. Whichever way, it's definitely the simplest death, though somehow it still feels too grandiose.

Though now I wonder: would God hate me if I killed myself? That's what everyone says about hell. "God still loves you as you hang, but his anger will fry you to a crisp for all eternity." That's the very definition of hate, stupid.

– oh, don't worry, dear reader, I don't actually want to kill myself. I desire a more symbolic death, like that time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or that other time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or the time I went to Russia, and for a moment contemplated just staying, just hiding out in one of the monasteries, living off the kvass, the leftover hosts – at last, witnessing winter.

But not a social death. I find that rather redundant, now – again, these times. Not a spiritual death, either, otherwise I wouldn't even consider killing myself. Something quieter, more honest –

Here, I'll tell. I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Yes, it sounds cliche, but you mustn't take things so figuratively – not everything I say is poetry.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. She was beautiful, with red hair, green eyes, and a body made of marble. Now that last one, that was figurative.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her mind was beautiful, too. She always knew what to say – rather, how to say it.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her heart. She was the first (and last) person I ever truly talked to – and the only voice I actually loved hearing. (Don't you see? When I'm loud like this, I'm not saying anything – I'm just coaxing you to speak louder. Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus)

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Maybe a memory, although that's a question I don't want to consider anymore, it's caused me such heartache.

It's causing me heartache now. It's always like this, you know: every year, like spring cleaning, I pass my fingers over my naked body, remember all the old wounds, examine all the new ones. Then this – the perpetual scab. Like an eight-day old operation, changing through error from Jew to Lucy. Yes, God hates fags.

He also hates incestuous couples, whatever you call them. Returning to the wound: I pick it, as I pick all my scabs. But unlike with the others, which I eventually let grow into scars, it receives special treatment. After picking, I scratch – after scratching, I poke – after poking, I plunge. And lastly, like a vampire, I lap. My blood tastes sweet.

(I believe you've tasted it before? in my words, my poetry – in fact, even in my acts, for everything I do, I do for love of you)

Of You – of her. Yes, that's the heartache: she rejected me. Rejected me by not existing, that shadow, that damn dream. That Daddy. But the wound is different – I know how not to conflate. The wound is this: that I conflate her with God. No, that I love her above God.

Here's the thing about suicide: once you witness an exit, you desire it more than the field outside. You desire it more than happiness. You desire it more than passing your hand over Witchgrass, than watching your Geraniums grow white with snow. Such that in the end, you truly can't ever be happy.

I'm just glad I don't care about happiness. I don't think I'll be happy in the cold, however much I say I love it. I don't think I'll be happy in the church, however much I know it's right. And I don't think I'll be happy with her – but still, I'll be with her.

When I kill myself, it won't be for my sake, but for hers.