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I Won’t Write Your Obituary
You asked if you could call to say goodbye if you were ever really gonna kill yourself.
Sure, but I won’t write your obituary.
I’ll commission it from some dead-end journalist who will say things like:
“At peace… Better place… Fought the good fight…”
Maybe reference the loving embrace of Capital-G-God at least 4 times.
Maybe quote Charles fucking Bukowski.
And I won’t stop them because I won’t write your obituary.
But if you call me, I will write you a new sky, one you can taste.
I will write you a D-I-Y cloud maker so on days when you can’t do anything you can still make clouds in whatever shape you want them.
I will write you letters, messages in bottles, in cages, in orange peels, in the distance between here and the moon, in forests and rivers and bird songs.
I will write you songs. I can’t write music, but I’ll find Rihanna, and I’ll get her to write you music if it will make you want to dance a little longer.
I will write you a body whose veins are electricity because outlets are easier to find than good shrinks, but we will find you a good shrink.
I will write you 1-800-273-8255, that’s the suicide hotline; we can call it together.
And yeah, you can call me, but I won’t tell you it’s okay, that I forgive you.
I won’t say “goodbye” or “I love you” one last time.
You won’t leave on good terms with me,
Because I will not forgive you.
I won’t read you your last rights, absolve you of sin, watch you sail away on a flaming viking ship, my hand glued to my forehead.
I will not hold your hand steady around a gun.
And after, I won’t come by to pick up the package of body parts you will have left specifically for me.
I’ll get a call like “Ma’am, what would you have us do with them?”
And I’ll say, “Burn them. Feed them to stray cats. Throw them at school children. Hurl them at the sea. I don’t care. I don’t want them.”
I don’t want your heart. It’s not yours anymore, it’s just a heart now and I already have one.
I don’t want your lungs, just deflated birthday party balloons that can’t breathe anymore.
I don’t want a jar of your teeth as a memento.
I don’t want your ripped off skin, a blanket to wrap myself in when I need to feel like your still here.
You won’t be there.
There’s no blood there, there’s no life there, there’s no you there. I want you.
And I will write you so many fucking dead friend poems, that people will confuse my tongue with your tombstone and try to plant daisies in my throat before I ever write you an obituary while you’re still fucking here.
So the answer to your question is “yes”.
If you’re ever really gonna kill yourself, yes, please, call me.
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