If something extraordinary happened tomorrow, I don't think I'd want to die anymore. I could fall in love and be happy for a bit, fawn over and dote on the next once-in-a-lifetime-person. Until the obsession sizzles out. I could win the lottery and go wild. Purchase a dilapidated castle somewhere in the Highlands, fix it up, fill it to the brim with books, antiques, and a barnyard of animals. I'd frolic through the heather and drape myself across velvet chaise longues when I'm not writing or elbow-deep in creative projects. How long until the thrill wears off? How long before I fall back into that default state of being?
At thirteen, I tried to peace out twice. And talked myself into giving life another chance: therapy, medication, London, university, travel. My heart breaks for that girl. More than double her lifetime has passed, and no great leaps to show for it. My reserves for trying are empty. Is it weakness to hold on, and courage to let go? Do I love myself enough to end my suffering, or do I keep clinging to the hope of fixing what was never whole?
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
שיריםMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
