sometimes, i think about dying.
i almost never think of it at night
or on gray winter days,
contrary to popular belief–
rather, in hot rooms full of sun
and dust motes shimmering in tarantella lines
i think of it, stretched out across the bed
and staring at the ceiling
with lighthearted string music
or some gummy pop song as my soundtrack.
i admit that sometimes while i think of it,
i put on the saddest music i can think of–
because it helps me to think easier, to breathe slower,
to focus. i think about dying
in the shower, watching steaming droplets
bead the deep burnt-sugar gold of my skin
and slip along the ribbons of stretch marks.
i close my eyes under the deluge of delicious warmth
and i think about dying.
potassium cyanide sounds so simple. an overdose of heroin–
but the logistics behind the acquisition would be Herculean in themselves
and i’m guilty of wanting it easy, like every American.
(i like being American.) i considered hanging, once,
but the only bruises i want on my neck should come from a lover.
my favorite plan, though, is a bubble of air. a self-induced aneurysm
injected air into a vein swooshing its way up
to pop like a malignant balloon in my brain. instant infinity,
you see? and the irony would not be lost on me–
dying of air, the very thing which keeps me alive.
a Plath copycat would be as boring as she was.
i think about dying, sometimes,
staring at the body that carts me around because
each sighting is the first and every bone that shifts
beneath the sheath of my skin is a curiosity,
every shock of pain a surprise, every pleasure a marvel.
i’m like a phoenix: i die every night and then i wake up in the morning.
sometimes i think about death.
i know. don’t tell me– it’s a sin or something
because i’m twenty-one. it’s also disgustingly typical
of a tween with everything going for him to contemplate mortality.
i don’t care. sometimes i think about death–
i think of dying,
and then i go on living.