Reverse Suicide Note
A poem about choosing to live
~after Tony Hoagland
Killing yourself is wasteful, like spilling bourbon
on a granite countertop, missing the glass
because there were two glasses
and you aimed for the wrong one.
Who says the sadness gets to decide?
No one can love the empty space you leave behind.
I know. I’ve felt myself slipping between the walls,
thinking more about truths spoken in my absence
than when I am there to hear them. I’ve searched
for the most painless way to end it,
to guarantee an escape from the clock’s winding arms,
pushing me forward like relentless bulldozer teeth,
but every method has its vegetative risk,
and who wants to leave a mess for a spouse to find?
Imagine death like floating in outer space,
no music, no warmth, no thunderstorm horizon,
no more cheesecake drizzled with raspberry syrup,
no more lovemaking in fresh clean sheets.
Find something that anchors your heart to tomorrow,
a weighted stone to throw, scarred with your name.
For me it’s these words,
I’ve placed in your hands.