Letters to Suicidal Friends (trigger warning)

To Suicidal Friend #1: Your problem is temporary. Your solution, too, is temporary. The darkness will not swallow you--you will live forever in the minds of those who knew you and remember you, as the phantom whose eyes turned to lead--and who led by example. And led by the leash he who was also at the end of the rope and led by the hands the girl with the Swiss Army wrists, led the one who exchanged fourth story slip for pavement kiss --To join you in signing it all off in burgundy ink that evaporates never; to agree to unofficially become expert navigators. We all will acquaint ourselves with the universal destination in due time. You just know the quickest shortcuts. To Suicidal Friend #2: And you will sleep with the angelfish: Neither beyond bright blue sky Nor at the bottom of dark blue ocean-- Just in between. In a room of the loneliest white noise walls. The biggest empty. On the fool’s gold medal podium for Olympic swimming-- only for the champion--he who stills the shuddering and the gasping at breakneck speed. You claim the glory for your nation, for its white flag. In the abyssal nothing, you are the greatest. To Suicidal Friend #3: Though you know the prescription could be wrong, these are your little companions. You are lovesick to the point of collapse. Your throat only knows exhaust. It is the vomit and the bad last act of a good one-production play and it is the blindness. We must all contemplate it at some point, but you’ve really dared to part with your old friend fear, and now part your lips, seeking to renew your wholeness. If I were in your position, I too, would sigh-n’-I’d gulp, then dive into vanilla oblivion. To Suicidal Friend #4: Like the burnt-out signal flare, Like one who seeks god, Like the closet of cleaning supplies, now empty, hanging open. Crumbling like chalk-- Curling, wilting, trailing off, you are the bent weathervane which cares no more for being tossed around. You’re late for a business lunch for one. You have reserved the dimmest corner of the shadow cafe and look to say grace before devouring your order, seated at this operating table. But you’re late for it, dragging your feet. Too uninspired to hunt for reasons to, or not to. So you bury your ashen face in the sheets, and turn out the light, repeatedly whispering to yourself: “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.” “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”