Gun To Head
So, two weeks after I had turned twenty, I opened my friend’s bedroom door to find that he had slit his wrists. He died there, with me, waiting for the forever impending chorus of ambulance sirens that didn’t come even close to soon enough. I’m not sure if I ever did state this, on here. Regardless.
This is not a call for sympathy, this is a call-to-arms.
You had better seek prosperity first and foremost in the weapons you arm yourself with. You had better grit your teeth and revel in your aching jaw. And you had better not let anyone tell you that you have brought whatever bitter misery, that you are forced to own and wear, upon yourself.
You had better not feel guilty or stare at peach coloured palms and imagine them red, and assume you are caught.
That being said.
Some days I wish he had stepped out in front of somebody else’s bus. Had been smeared across their windows, across their pre-dream thoughts.
I wish he had found inspiration from deep-sea-divers, filled his pockets not with rocks but with mercury instead. Poisoned all the water and everybody else with him.
I wish he had hung himself with a noose of somebody else’s notes and photographs.
And I wish, this weakest part of me, holes throughout, that I had been there earlier, that I had not thought to complete one of the mundane things I had felt so necessary to embark on that day.
And I still have wary, frightened dreams where you come home and you do all the things that normal happy people do.