Dear Amelia,
I'm writing this letter to you from the bed of someone's pickup in the ER parking lot. I don't know whose truck it is, but I'm sure they won't give a fuck if I use their car as a sofa.
I found you lying on your bed surrounded by five bottles of over-the-counter painkillers. There were two empty canisters of some kind of prescription medication (presumably yours), and your excuse of a note was folded and crammed into the neck of an empty water bottle.
Everyone makes suicide seem so glamorous. But I've never seen you look remotely as bad as you did when I found you. Your sheets were soaked with piss and there was a small puddle of saliva and bile but your mouth. Your eyes were open, yellow, and glazed. To be honest, I thought that I was too late. I couldn't find your pulse. Your breath was invisible shallow.
You would have been the first dead person I'd seen.
Landon
YOU ARE READING
Landon, Empty
Poetry“How can I be reasonable? To me, our love was everything and you were my whole life. It is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.” -W. Somerset Maugham (c) mockingjayde 2013
