if you google suicidal thoughts
they'll give you a hotline number,
which you can call whenever you like,
sometimes every day, for a few weeks.

you can call for any reason you want,
maybe you're fat and lonely
with few friends
and a porn addiction.

maybe the chic-fil-a girl
you think is cute and
mustered up the courage to talk to
laughed at you with her friends.

could be your drunk dad yells at your mom
and makes her cry
before storming out of the house
as you pray he dies in a wreck.

then again, maybe you're not fucked up,
or if you are, it's something else.
there's lots of reasons to want to die,
you don't have to steal mine.

secrets

the secrets to my happiness
is one i learned a while ago,
to let the small stuff pass you by
and remain steadfast in the moment.

trying desperately not to break
promises we make ourselves,
to spend more time living,
and less time being alive.

to truly appreciate the finiteness
of every minute, hour, and life
and avoid as much as possible
the allure of distraction until death.

to expose yourself to joy and pain
and be unafraid of what comes,
for it inexorably will, when it chooses,
leaving you solely with the aftermath.

whirr

during the final walkthrough

of my one-bedroom, one bath,

with the lights on and doors open,

i pause to stare up at my fan.

i recall listening to its whirr,

entranced by its moving blades,

as she told me she loved me,

and later, when she said she cheated.

laying down, i used to trace the fractal

webbing of the stucco ceiling,

sometimes with a smile on my face

and others with it painted in tears.

pain, joy, sadness, delight,

a cacophony of emotions,

a soundless orchestra of feelings

drowned out only by the whirr.

a non-trivial number of hours

spent staring, wondering, hoping,

as i am poised to leave it all behind,

start a new chapter, find a new fan.