I have to wash the dishes before I write my suicide note.
Put away the clothes on the chair. Water the plants. Feed the cats.
Find a lighter that still works.
A sweater that doesn't smell of smoke.

I need to taste summer fruit with juice running down my wrist and chin.
Walk into the river until the current holds me steady.
Touch someone's shoulder and not let go too fast.

I want to hear a stranger laugh like it matters.
Carve initials into damp wood.
Keep a secret rock in my pocket until it's smooth with worry.
Dance to the music of thunder.
Converse with the beetle on my window.

I need to read the last page of a book in the sunlight.
Collect bones, shells, cigarette butts. Proof I was here.
Take a bus to nowhere just to come home again.
Tell someone I love them and mean it, even if they forget.
Kiss someone I don’t love just to feel the weight of it.

The words taste like rain on metal.
I’ll take a photo of myself and delete it.
Count the cracks in the ceiling.
I leave the door unlocked.
I crumple up the page.
For now.