Suicide runs in my family. My uncle jumped over a bridge and drowned when I was a kid. Then years later, my big sister followed, she died in the hospital with the doctors giving CPR on her dead body. The only thing she left behind were bills, tears, and a son. And maybe a bit of memory prisoned in photographs and resuscitated in the person of her son— as a reminder that she was once here. I missed both funerals. I feared I would be taking another dead body to another person’s funeral. She was a good woman, though. I loved her.
I’ve also had thoughts of my own, of suicide. But it’s hardly noticeable, even to me. I know this from the way I live my life like I’ve got a spare— forlorn, tired, bitter, unlovable, isolated as if I’ll enjoy the next life. All these could kill me if I’m not dead already.
Though I live a careful life, death grins every time I leave the house. Everything is trying to kill me. Touts manhandle me to board their vehicles as if they’re about to dislocate parts of me. Others suffocate me with love as if I’m not already dead inside.
Suicide runs in my family. It would be okay if nobody was running in my family. But obesity would kill them too. So, I run in my family, to keep fit. To prevent my body from killing me as it did my sister. I saw her frail in the hospital bed for months, as she fought to keep alive, and her body weakened, responding with the opposite energy. And I grinned because I didn’t know what to say to the setting sun.
And I avoid drowning in alcohol, too. I live with my heart on my sleeves and a fist in my pocket. Because it is suicide if the things you love kill you too.
I write every love letter like it’s a suicide note— blunt, and with an ego that would choke me if I swallowed it. So, when I die people would not assume I died a pussy because I couldn’t get a …
As Written by Barnray & Brainy O’Bee
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