The leaves on the trees look so green these days.
The sky is so blue, so clear, making love to its lover’s softness and mirth.
The sun shines so bright;
I feel its searing touch on my skin, on the rare occasion I go out and greet it hello.
The rain, a calm brought by the sound of rhythmic chaos.
The wildflowers, those that persist, those that bloom in the direst of circumstances.
The newly cemented roads blinding in their ashy whiteness.
The water is cooler, the breeze tastes sweeter.
The world is just so much more vibrant, so much more beautiful,
on the days before you die.

It was not that I hadn’t accomplished anything.
I had good grades;
I had medals and excellence ribbons.
I won a spelling bee, once.
I ended high school with a flair.

But these are regular things, for regular people,
with regular shouts to the void.

We all came into this existence,
and we all learned, one way or another,
to dream of being

There was no 12-year-old out there
that didn’t dream of something
so big, so wonderful,
it had 32-year-olds scoffing
behind their newspapers and morning coffee.

But far, far beyond the despairing reality of adulthood,
didn’t we all want to be someone, once?

I wanted to be someone.

I wanted to be someone my mother would be proud of.
I wanted to be someone the teachers who believed in me would be proud of.

I wanted to be someone I would be proud of.

I wanted to be someone so badly,
that now that I’m realizing I can’t,

now that I’m realizing I’m not enough,
not enough strength, enough intelligence, enough attractiveness,

now that I’m realizing I’m not enough anyone
to be someone,

how am I still of worth
to tell the person in the mirror–
the space she has been occupying for the past two decades
was a space without merit, after all?

I had a good run.

Maybe I’ll even be missed.

I had friends I could call friends by name;

We talked about tea, about memes, about sociopolitical awareness.
Mostly about tea.

My world was yellow in their presence.

Maybe they’ll cry for me.

I had other friends, too.
Best friends, you could say.

Friends that comforted.
Friends that understood.
Friends that stayed.

Friends I was never able to introduce.
Friends I was too unsure of myself to introduce.

The girl with the pink hair who took me on an adventure;
the twins of light and darkness;
the shy little fairy the size of my palm;
the two children and the promise;
the woman who jumped and gained wings;
the prince and the knight, best of friends with the boy who wanted to fly;
the princess with the sun in her heart;
and the beautiful black cat who saved me, as I saved her.

Thank you for loving me silently,
on the nights when I could love only the darkness behind my eyelids.

I had a good run.
I’m tired now.


As the myth goes,

An invisible red string exists
that connects those who are destined to meet in this lifetime.

The string may stretch and it may tangle, but it will never break.

I’m not sure if I believe this myth,
but I believe there are other strings that can be broken;

be it by destiny, or be it by hand.

Strings that connect friends.
Strings that connect family.
Strings that connect us to the world.

Maybe some of us are not destined to be connected to the world.

I am afraid,
but soon I will not be.

I have but two wishes:

plant a yellow flower for me.

please, forgive me.

– “Suicide Note”



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