suicide letter 1

**please note**
(this is just a poem, not a suicide letter.)


Why did she do it? They'd ask. Why now?
She's found love! (or something close enough.)
Because they cared only for themselves! i'd say,
fingers pointed to the end, face to the wall.

Because of Africa,
Iraq,
TIBET for christ's sake!

Because i read Bukowski before i died,
and agreed with so much of what was spilled
and splattered across those pages.

Because he was too good, and loved me too much
and because i didn't love myself enough.

Because of god damned obliviousness and
our willing embrace of it.

Because of nature, and boredom,
and a longing to get it over with.

Because of the pictures behind my eyes that would
(and want) to shock and horrify;
broken glass,
rusty nails.
blood,
shattered teeth,
rape.

demons and snapping neck-bones.
murder, in the blanket of night.

Because that monster who stalks the page
never sleeps,
though he forgets
who has the dexterity,
the pens and calloused fingers,
and the will
to make
it stop.

So gather now,
family, friends,
and lovers.
gather to laugh in the faces
of tragedy and sorrow,
laugh at extinction,
laugh because it is all we have,
in this wilting jungle;
our humor is our resilience.