Aokigahara

I guess you could say the reasons differ for why most of Japan's suicidals do it. The two major ones are because of work -- ironically -- those that do it too much and those that can't find any at all. Rather than bring dishonor upon oneself, more and more Japanese are apt to end it all and gain what honor they can in death. Mothers who kill themselves but spare their children are more likely to demonized than those who take them to the grave.

Japan isn't the highest ranked country in the world for suicides. But it comes with a rich history. Samurai and their seppuku, fighter pilots and their kamikaze, all glorified in harrowing fashion the act of taking one's life. A new label suits the modern-day suicidals: the Hikikomori. These are recluses, introverts, shut-ins, and any other description that highlights their unwillingness to enter the world and instead draw the curtains and shutter the windows. The extent of human interaction for many is a parent or caregiver who provides them with a tray of food. A far cry from stomach disembowelment and fiery explosions in the Pacific.

When caught in the act, a Japanese person likely won't go through with it. At least not until later. Special lights in the subway seek to draw attention to potential suicidals and in a way shame them into not doing it due to the risk of being witnessed. Aokigahara, the Sea of Trees, was brought into the mainstream first by books glorifying its serene qualities and as an ideal setting for a suicide. Documentaries and Internet culture would later shed more light on it, but more as a fascinating topic than a tragic circumstance.

i throw up, which it reminds me of
eating too much candy as a child
on Halloween night, which reminds me
of the beating i received, which reminds
me of how i ran away, which
reminds me of the orphanage,
which reminds me of home.

i look in the mirror, which brings back memories
of feeling self conscious and unwanted
in grade school, which brings back
memories of my first dance, which brings
back memories of being cheated on, which
brings back memories of using,
which brings back memories i'd rather forget.

i see the scars on my arm, which make me think
if the world would be better off without me
a part of it, which makes me think
of ending it again, which makes me
think of all the times i haven't, which makes
me think of why i haven't, which
makes me think of using again,
which makes me think of when i quit.

i head back to bed.

insecurities

we'd rather not put in the effort
of making life meaningful
so we inundate ourselves
in distractions and sideshows.

we'd rather not find ourselves
but rather constantly look at others
and why they are so much better
and how to become them.

happiness is elusive in the 21 century
amid a torrent of messaging
and incessant reminders
that you are not quite perfect.

instead of seeking knowledge
we pursue ways to avoid it,
instead occupying our time
on ever-wasteful endeavors.

the ultimate insecurity
of the modern day man
is his inability to define himself
and live life in his own way.

you have one saved message

Walking down the street

The gnawing urge overcomes me

And I pull out my cellphone

To listen to the voicemail.

“Mary, sweetheart, I love you,

Oh god, I love you so much.

I just want you to know that,

Mommy loves you. Love you.” click

I stand transfixed on the sidewalk

In a trance, melding into the street

As strangers pass by me

Largely unnoticed.

Twelve years ago my mom died

In an airplane that hit a building in New York.

Minutes before it happened she called

And left me her final message.

Aleppo

Atia leaves daily to help the hospital,

he tells of babies whose scalp

hangs off the head and the blood

he pushes with the mop into gutters.

Every day, always, I stand in line

with the others to get bread,

but none I recognize, my friends

are gone, my old life, it is gone. 

I do not know if Atia will return,

I pray Allah wills it so, 

though I know it is selfish,

and he fights for our freedom.

---

The hospital, it is bombed,

doctors and nurses are dead,

but Atia, he came home,

and said he's joining the snipers. 

I heard of the rape to the women,

performed even in the mosques,

fouling the holiness there with adultery,

sorrow, and ultimately, death. 

Atia tells me about a man he shot.

He says he was shabiha in plain clothes,

I ask him how he is so sure,

he says that he just is.

---

The ground shakes here daily,

explosions I hear every few minutes

as people scream and run

looking for somewhere safe. 

Atia said tonight in other cities

the army is attacking with chemicals.

He sounded more angry than usual

so I didn't ask him what he meant.

Tonight he did not return,

though I deny it I know he is dead

like so many others, buried in rubble

or laying dead, nameless, in the street.

monk

the chime on the door jingles
and a short, bald man
in an orange and red robe
glides in like a specter.

i spy him ordering a small tea
and sitting down at a table.
giving him no particular mind,
i return to my magazine.

out of the corner of my eye
i sneak a glance and see him,
smelling it ever so lightly
and taking the briefest of sips.

by the time i finished reading
nearly an hour later, he'd finished.
still he sat, alone,
in serene contemplation.

"what a waste of an hour", i thought
as i stepped outside to the sting of cold air
and abrupt realization that i'd already forgotten
what i read in my meaningless rag.

love is cold

surely being in love
can be as troubling
as spending your days alone,
complete with its challenges.

yet it’s just like when
you're cold outside,
and you can always stop
to don a jacket.

compare it to the heat,
where a limit exists
to the amount of clothing
you can shed to cool off.

when you're alone
you cannot simply conjure
a loving companion
from a coat closet.

however, when you are,
there's always a warmth
should you need it.
i'm not cold - i'm freezing.

pillow talk

the sounds of laughter and
hushed voices in my bedroom
are replaced by gusts of wind
and the sound of tires on pavement.

the pillow that she always used
is now mine to lay on as i wish,
though the desire has since left me,
as i reach out and touch nothing.

i now lay across the imaginary
line that i once joked was proof
of her hogging the bed,
arms and legs around me.

i no longer even get out
to check if i locked up,
or turn up the air,
or get a glass of water.

it is in the ordinary,
the every-day,
that our lives are molded,
and true bonds form.

the town

in the town i see
the small cafe table
where we ate lunch
one sunny weekend.

i sit in the same
row at the theaters,
the same seat where
you leaned on me.

i stalk the same
grocery aisles
that we browsed
hundreds of times.

there is barely
a place to shop or eat
that you don't show up
in bittersweet memories. 

in a room with 20 people
dressed in suits and dresses,
one is notably quiet and still
and quite dead as they lay.

hours before, someone
in a presumably cold
and sterile room carefully
worked their magic.

using the same foundation
and blush as attending in-laws,
in an attempt to make
the dead living once more.

in this backwards place
where survivors are victims,
positives can be as elusive as
the answers to impossible questions.

so though strange, it was
not entirely awkward
when my dad turned and said
"he looks pretty good".

stabbed

in a lukewarm shower
i play the scene in my head,
the one she recounted
in horrifying detail.

the smell of liquor on his breath
was the first warning sign,
but by the time he was on top
she claims it was too late.

i turn the knob a little colder -
an attempt to drown out
the images in my head
of thrusting hips and gasps.

she dropped just enough
nuggets of detail -
my head filled in the gaps
with terrifying creativity.

i turn the knob a little colder -
trying to numb the thoughts
of her helplessness
and my inadequacy.

i wonder if she enjoyed it.
i know he came inside,
penetrating a space
that now is ours -- and private.

i turn the knob a little colder.