you never feared death;
you embraced it.
you let the demons linger
in the background,
gnawing at faded photographs
and grey memories
of the years past-
when life was simple.
when recollection didn’t
fester up in open wounds,
and your darkest secrets
weren’t crawling in grungy corners
amongst the hidden truth.
you never feared death;
you welcomed it.
you allowed the beasts to creep
into the depths of your demise,
conjuring up nightmares within
the shadows of your subconscious,
screeching to be saved,
yet you can’t hear it.
you never feared death;
you accepted it.
you fell in love with
the anatomy of a gun,
how bullets gracefully leave
the barrel until
the entire magazine is gone-
and the glorious recoil.
but somehow,
there was no warning,
no bright yellow caution sign screaming,
“help me”
no “i love you’s,” and no “goodbyes”;
now,
all we have left is
the ghost of you-
the blood-stained wall,
the haunting images
of your bloodshot eyes
and limp carcass-
on a bed i used to sleep in.
thirteen years ago, my maternal grandmother committed suicide. i was five at the time.
thinking now, it's hard to say that my family has recovered from it. it doesn't help that i've been diagnosed with a plethora of mental illnesses that coincide with my grandmother's.
the people whom i live with a constant fear that they'll come to my dead body lying on the bathroom floor. they believe that one day i will actually commit suicide, when i know deep down i won't.
it's hard knowing that my family feels this way because i'm the one who's causing their pain. i love them dearly and want them to know that i won't leave them the same way my grandmother did.
i love them way too much.
