 My Suicide Note 

That was the first night she envisioned her death with enthrallment.

Filling up the complete emptiness with shreds of abandonment.

The dreamy images of her death fascinated her lonely mind.

She wasn’t sure how she would do it-the death had to be heroic,

Sickly beautiful and permanently scarring,

And everything she wasn’t.

What to do, what to do? There were an infinite amount of possibilities.

She could slash a vertical gash with the innocent little razor-not the safe horizontal

And spent her last blurry silences giggling at the torture of the

Tickles of the luscious red river painstakingly flowing past the rocks

Of too many and not enough scars

Or, she could jump in front of a car

Leap in front of the gaping driver who just couldn’t

Slam the breaks in time and the suicidal that just couldn’t

Change her goddamn mind before it was brainwashed by an explosion of matter.

And then when she was nothing more than a solid figure of rock resting on

Disheveled weeds, crunchy yellow grass, and the only life with her

The scratched words spelling out the rise and fall of the legacy of a natural failure 

That was when they would finally call her pretty-sometimes outgoing and funny, but a little bit shy.

But wasn’t pretty just a pretty word?

Dear Life Wrecker,

If you’re reading this now, congratulations. You got to figure out what method I used to die leave. Hell, I’m pretty curious myself. I spent my last few good days killing myself (HA! See, even a suicidal can find humor in things) over how to say goodbye, while leaving a nice few blood-splattered teardrops on my carpet.

I’ll be explaining EVERYTHING. Ooh, more secrets to pass around a place where privacy is nonexistent! Yay!

If you’ve never heard about this suicide letter yet, you’re probably a police officer examining an once-in-a-lifetime crime scene. You’re wondering how somebody could do this to themselves, and you began looking around for some evidence. Then you noticed this sheet of paper on my desk, and you notice a poem, and you remember how all of her friends said that she loved to write and often sent them original writing. You think that this could be something. And it is. Congrats, Officer! Bet this is what you can muse about while you go buy some coffee and donuts.

Sorry for the probably untrue stereotype. Just know that I want EVERYONE to see this. I mean, all of my friends (school and more) and family and teachers and classmates. I want everyone who I received the wrath to receive the full wrath of me.

Sigh. Suicidal probs, huh? You know, there’s more ways to kill yourself than just jumping in front of car or falling off a building or cutting yourself and shit. There are a lot more creative methods that will make those girls and that guy call you beautiful-not pretty, but beautiful. There’s a difference, at least in my eyes.

I’m constantly changing. See, there are good days and bad days. On good days, my version of the sun shines down on me. I’m in the spotlight of an empty stadium, ecstasy bringing the sweet madness, and I can be anything I want, aside from a suicidal. I can find a reason to be loved. But bad days are a completely different story. My demons come up from behind, take me from the spotlight and into a realm of my nightmares and scars of insecurities. I suppose today’s one of those bad days. Like, really, REALLY bad days.

I hate the word “die.” It’s such a gloomy word, right? You’re leaving a hellhole for good, and all you use is “die”? All of you people got it wrong.

I think I’m gonna switch to past tense now. After all, I’m gone now, right? Hopefully, if I’ve been good, I’ll be in the bad-girl section of limbo.

I didn’t want to die. I didn’t commit suicide. I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave those “friends” who laughed behind carefree fingers as they aided my departure. Hi, friends, if you’re reading. Did you hear? The ugly freak is gone-dead, in fact. YAY! Now, we don’t have to pretend to be sympathetic as she complains about that cute guy stuck in between the past and present; the boy between fright and pity for the mistake her mother accidentally created.

Thank God we don’t have to ditch her and deal with her annoying as hell crying and begging. But I hate you all, anyway.

Jesus Christ, I’m sorry, guys. It’s me, again. The real me. Wait, that’s a complete oxymoron. Everyone tells me to be myself, be who I am, be proud of who I am. But how can I be me when I have no idea who the ghost staring back at me in the mirror is? The figure with the same physical looks in the glass is a collection of flaws, morphed into one life-sized collage of hate.

STOP CRYING OH MY FUCKING GOD I PROMISED THAT I WOULDN’T CRY AND THAT I WOULD STAY STRONG BUT I CAN’T IT’S A LOT HARDER THAN IT FUCKING LOOKS OKAY? YOU PEOPLE NEVER KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE. YOU DON’T KNOW TO STILL BE AWAKE AT 4 AM WITH NOTHING BUT MEMORIES OF CAREFREE SUMMER RIPPING YOU INTO SHREDS AS YOU STARE INTO THE DARKNESS AND REVIEW HOW TO FAKE THAT SMILE YOU’VE BEEN FAKING FOR YEARS THAT IT’S BECOME GODDAMN FUCKING ROUTINE

 My thoughts are being possessed by madness (it occurs regularly, by the way, as you can see) and I thought that writing this was going to be easy and fun because like I said that’s what I thought before because I’ve dreamed about writing this by the dwindling moonlight so many times and it seemed like goddamn fucking fate. Like I was born to die.

Let me tell you a little more about the madness. I can tuck it away into the folds of my mind for school and life and stuff, but only if I try really hard and if I really want to. I can be all smart and funny and witty and sexy during school and parties and stuff, but at night I can take off that mask. Night is hellish, but it’s where I can let loose with the razors. At night I can just bawl and bawl, my face in my pillow, sobbing till my head lies on a crown of broken tears. In morning, I find them back together, reunited to crumple me again.

Am I depressed? Technically and on a medical standpoint, yes. But I hate referring to that term. I’m too happy normal to depressed, but I’m too sad to be normal.

And who said that bullying and insecurities were the only reason to be depressed? School killed me more than all of you. All of you wanted me to be perfect. And oh my God, I tried so hard to get the best grades. I used to cry myself to sleep over the mere numbers and letters that soon defined my existence. I tried to run away from it and I hid in the corners of happiness, begged it to take me somewhere home and golden. But I couldn’t. It haunted every corner of my sanity till I couldn’t do it anymore, till I couldn’t hold the label of “smart” anymore. It’s a never-ending race of hate that is reflected in each perfect test paper and denied by my peers. School judged me. It taught me pointless crap and that I would never be enough. How am I supposed to work on school when school makes me feel worthless?

 It’s easy for all of you because you’re either smart or pretty or athletic or ANYTHING and hell, some of you were everything! But what about the girl that couldn’t force the happiness like everyone else? Nobody cares unless something dramatic happens. Nobody cares unless you’re pretty or dying. You don’t know me. You don’t know about the invisible chains that bind me to a monster. None of you are afraid to lose me. The words “SECOND CHOICE” have long been branded onto my forehead.

Sometimes honesty isn’t the best goddamn policy.

I’m done talking about me. It’s a subject I know too well, and I’m about to desert it. For good. I just exposed the truth of my fricken’ existence. I told you the secrets hidden in that star-studded smile and the hysterical jokes.

I’m sorry. I really am, and I wish I could express it better than just words on a tear-stained page. I’m so sorry.

Good-bye. But there’s good in this goodbye-I promise.

I’ll see you all in hell.

~cw