if i could write a suicide note that would explain away everyone's misplaced guilt i would kill myself in a heartbeat; alas.

my dad used to say, "it's selfish."
with the fury and conviction of someone who's never thought to themselves,
i am tired in a way that sleep cannot help.
because trust me, i have tried;
slept for days on end pretending i had died,
leaving food out 'til i was surrounded in waste,
wasting away to try to get a taste
of that sweet relief.
i've heard people say that it's the easy way out,
and i've heard people say that things are hard because they're worth it,
but all i want is one day.
one day of not constantly thinking
how much easier it would be to swallow a bunch of pills
and get in the tub
and go.
i know, i know i'm supposed to want to try
but no matter the reasons i don't understand why
i'm supposed to want this struggle.
i'm supposed to want to be alive when
being alive means fleeting happinesses and
heavy, haunting sadnesses.
and if i had a choice in the matter,
i would've chosen for me to never have happened.
if i could just be unborn,
things would be okay.
then all this mess would go away
and i wouldn't have to hurt people with this great dirty s word:
suicide.
i've had people cry to me, beg me,
ask me to promise, please, please, don't you ever -
and i've never once agreed because i refuse
to make a promise i don't know i can keep.
i'm sorry that i am hurting you.
but there is a great hurt inside of me
whose origins i can't detect,
and i can't predict where that will lead me.
so far:
strapped to a gurney, wheeled out in front of a playground
where children stopped playing to watch me scream at my mother
for pulling me out.
staring at myself in the mirror of my hospital room bathroom,
scraping my nails through the skin on my wrist
trying to see how deep inside of me i had to go
before i could feel anything.
withdrawing from school without telling my parents,
lying, telling professors i would work, telling friends i would travel,
setting up my room for whoever found me after.
my dad used to say, "it's selfish."
and it is, i know it is,
but how am i supposed to keep living for other people
and be happy with that?
i want to not be alive anymore.
i do, i do.
and i'm sorry that that hurts you.
but i can't go one fucking day without watching a bus drive by and thinking,
"i could have been in front of that."
home alone, cutting up vegetables and thinking,
"yes, right now, do it, you could do it."
taking my nightly medication, pouring out every pill,
counting them up and knowing,
"this is enough. this is it."
but i wait to cross the street
and i put the knife in the sink
and i take the proper dose
and i wait.
because i will gladly do worse things to myself
than i will do to other people.
maybe it's selfish -
but i find redemption in knowing that i have lasted this long
for everyone but me,
and i think that maybe it's high time i was a little bit selfish.
maybe, for me, just this one thing. please.
i'm sorry.
but if suicide really is some great unforgivable offense, well -
that's just one more broad burden
i will no longer have to bear.