This is not about your want for suicide.

It is not about that.

 

 Perhaps this isn't the first poem you've heard or seen.

It is most likely not. 

People have probably been shoving these types of things down your throat since you first learned what the words depression and suicide meant.

These types of poems are the things held accountable of your will to live choking out. 

So this poem is not about the family who will miss hearing your voice,

like a gospel choir radiant as a beam of light on Sunday. 

This is not about those friends who will never be able to hear your name without crying

as if your name to their ears is the screech of eagle's talons on a chalkboard. 

This is not about your bullies and how guilty they are going to be when they find out what happened; 

as if them crying for about ten minutes is going to ever compensate for your tsunami of tears that were never allowed to flood.

This is about "Friends". 

No, not the ones you meet at school, the t.v show.

You can't kill yourself yet, because you haven't finished that Friends marathon yet and you swore to your best

friend you would stay awake for it this time. 

You can't kill yourself yet because you have yet to figure out if 

something can smell like another thing tastes,

like how the smell of your grandparent's despair tastes the same as the tears your 

teachers will shred.

Sorry, this isn't about them. 

Don't do it yet because you haven't found out if you can cough and sneeze at the same time,

because you can't kill yourself if you do not know the answer to that question,

Just how your parents will never be at rest until they know why you did what you had to do.

But this isn't about them. 

This is about making sure you keep your streaks with your crush on Snapchat,

because dammit if you lose those you will probably never

get the courage to ask them out, or have a reason to talk to them, other than to say,

"Hey, sorry, have to restart."

Then again, you aren't planning on talking to anyone else again, were you?

But hey, this isn't about that.

This is about making sure you hear all the petty little reasons I have so you don't do it. 

And if at the end of this poem, I still have not convinced you, and your soul decides to go 

hang out with Jesus,

I will continue to come up with reasons of why you shouldn't have done it. 

All the eclipses you'll miss, and the petty Kardashian Fights. 

You'll never get to witness with your own eyes if Trump is reelected. 

Think of all the Mc Donald's Monopoly Prizes you'll miss out on,

all the Tim Horton's Roll-Up the rims.

I hope when you leave this page these reasons will continue to play out in your mind.

Don't do it.

I hope when you leave this page these reasons will continue to play out in your mind.

Don't do it

I hope when you leave this page these reasons will continue to play out in your mind.

Don't do it. 

Prize-Claw Machines, prized Infinity scarves, Infinity Wars, infinite "fruit-by the foots", 

Fruit snacks, snacks, and picnics, picnic baskets, basketball games, snakes and ladders, fire escapes, sparks, love, broken love, 

broken hearts, heartbreaking, chocolate, milk, cookies, cupcakes, 

ovens, cooking, burns, water, swimming, drowning, I mean, dying, I mean 

diving, breathing, choking, I mean seizing, I mean clawing, I mean claw games, I mean prizes, I mean winning, I mean living.

Did I mention claw machines?

You'll miss out on all of these things, 

I guarantee. 

And even though I am running out of time I am not running out of reasons,

so let these reasons kiss your forehead like your mother would at night and leave an imprint of the ink of my words, black and white written across

your face like the morning paper your uncle still gets because he doesn't trust the technology these days.

Since I can not give more reasons but one, I shall leave you to your own reasons.

Don't Do It.

Because even though I have only met you and will probably never talk to you again,

I'll miss you.

But it's not about that, is it?