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What is it to be suicidal?

 

 

Is it a belief? .... a sickness? 

Maybe it’s a plea from the victims of themselves,

drowning in the waves of insecurity,

obscurity,

and lack of purity. 

 

Maybe it’s a plea to a world that they worshipped:

one they idolized and patterned their lives after

only to realize that in this utopia there is no place for figures of reality,

like themselves.

 

Maybe to be suicidal is to be blinded by a cloud of dust,

blown from a recent tragedy, thick enough to stumble as if in darkness,

without light,

off of the cliff without really realizing where you are,

where you’re going,

and where to get out of that suffocating

and disgusting

mist that envelops you.

 

Maybe it’s to be selfish.

To sacrifice what they know is right,

to sacrifice a healing price,

to sacrifice those endless nights of

tormented

sleepless

walking in the darkness that isn’t even outside

because every place out there is still trapped in the prison of their mind and soul,

and maybe it’s to sacrifice the well-being of others,

and the happiness of others,

and the temporary smiles and permanent unblemished armor that they wear so proudly and plain-

maybe to be suicidal is to be willing to sacrifice all of it-

so they would finally be able to rest at night.

So that they would be able to relax all day.

So that they would be able to smile knowing that

the burden they placed on others had finally been lifted,

the shame they had to live with was finally gone,

and the life they had so miserably performed was to be dragged on towards an imminent failure no longer.

 

Maybe they are so caught up in

the beauty of pictures they create alone in their minds that

the means is blurred in the peripheral.

Maybe when they stand there,

gazing in that abyss in front of them,

time doesn’t stop as they hoped it would.

Maybe,

just maybe,

there is still the ticking of the clock behind them,

inside of them,

buried in their bones which shiver from this ticking that they want to slither out of,

a ticking that is inside their throat as well as their mind

as it goes

and drones

and roams

with tones

and moans

and phones that don’t get answered, texts that go regretted,

and identity that is inconsistent with the pattern

and rhythm

and ticking

and that heartbeat of life that they will never catch up with and so….

 

Maybe, in that moment, it isn’t a decision to take a life so that life ends,

but a reaction-

a reaction to an impulse,

just a reflex,

a swat at a mosquito bite,

a swing to stop that clock inside of them.

A reaction that feels so right...

 

Maybe it’s a mistake.

But definitely,

without doubt,

despite hesitation,

it is a nice moment...

just to itch the tick,

to feel time go calm, and to see the world passing by at its ever increasing speed

yet-

not be a part of it...

To finally step outside of reality,

into their utopia they love,

and finally,

ultimately,

and totally willingly

just

breathe..

 

 

Maybe that, then, is to be suicidal-

to breathe in the sweet poison they immerse themselves into without a mask.

And if so, then….

Well…. May we attack the poison rather than the victim,

even if they are one.

and the same.