Please

Cynicism. I wasn’t expecting you to act differently.
Irony. That you would stay.
Sarcasm. You asking how I am.
Truth. You are nice, but you can’t cope.
Sense. None. At all.
Closure. Yes, please.

Death of Cinderella

All this time I’ve been trying to kill Cinderella. Or I’d been hoping she’d grow up instead. You simply did away with the whole fairy kingdom at once. You raped Cinderella. That did it, I suppose. She had no other option but to grow up there and then.

Don’t Commit Suicide on a Weekday

People shouldn’t commit suicide in the middle of the day. It’s selfish. If you think about it, they are always troubling others with their display of a grand – though unoriginal - finale. I was commuting from work to my home before commuting again to my other job today (busy life that of a commuter) and I could not make my way home by train because, naturally, someone had decided to play God – assuming there is one - with himself and ended his (or her) martyr-ising life under the cold wheels of the choo-choo. What a heavy burden to decide to take on your back! Literally. That’s when this idea came to mind “Committing suicide in the middle of a working day is selfish.” And the ideas came pouring on: if you choose another means of transport instead (not to travel, of course, let’s make that explicit just in case), say the bus or a car, then the driver will have to face the passersby glaring and gaping and gawking and pointing and whispering... Not to mention the strain of complying with insurance regulations. Then there is the psychological side to it; the emotional scar that the bus driver will have to bear for the rest of his days, which might, in turn, push him to do likewise to end the suffering, and so feeding an endless chain of suicides. You could go for a more classical way such as jumping off a balcony (too messy) or shooting your brains out (almost equally messy). Have you thought after you are gone to the other side there’s someone else cleaning the crap you left? And of course there will be onlookers because morbidity raises curiosity - or vice versa. And the world will stop for one second– that world around the corpse, that is – and they will wonder why on earth you have decided to top yourself. Speculations will surely be of the kind ‘he must have been unhappy because his lover’s gone’ or ‘he was on drugs’ or even ‘he was part of a religious sect.’ Wow! Hold your horses, people! Anyway, I’m not here to talk about the assumptions on why someone has decided to terminate their existence, all I want is to point out how inconvenient it proves to be for others that you commit suicide on a weekday.

Misconceptions

Don’t say ‘big’, say ‘fat’. Don’t say ‘sexual’, say ‘whore’. Don’t say ‘loving’, say ‘adolescent’. Don’t say ‘caring’, say ‘nagging’. Don’t say ‘hot’, say ‘cocky’. Don’t say ‘intelligent’, say ‘braggart’. Don’t say ‘spiritual’, say ‘snob’. Don’t say ‘unusual’, say ‘schizo’.

Back in Place

I am talking about the feeling that I had when I saw your head pop from behind that door. And I felt there was alliteration between us, like in a poem. But then the poem was empty and I had to own up to the fact that I was too. Not completely, though, just a part. It’s all this time, you see? It’s been driving me nuts, cutting me off, chopping me down. And I had to grow my arms again, I had to grow my feet, and I had to grow my head back up on my shoulders.
And then that cup of thought was looking, glaring, almost leering, as if expecting me to speak my mind. Hell, I said, I thought it’d be easier. And then I had that silly, tiny, creaking crack waiting to be glued together, for the parts are nothing just as they are. And they were jumbled. They jumbled them, I know. But I also know I had jumbled them myself.

Singular Peculiar

I reckon maybe tomorrow I won’t be the same you met today. I realise perhaps it’s a matter of time to give you back your sympathy, to ask you to keep your calm and swallow your apathy. I understand it’s now I don’t want your pity and I don’t need this surgical survival. That random twister clinching the me I was and the not-so-me I am. And now I see the completion of it all depends on more than one. One… the sound comes to my head… the song… and the words keep echoing… “one is the loneliest number” and the rest goes “two can be as bad as one, it’s the loneliest number since the number one.” And I find it might be true. And it’s sad… it is. It becomes the twister clinching me now, replacing what there was and no longer is. It’s because I always wished it would be simpler. Or maybe I knew it could, but it is not.

Hopefully Willingly

Now I am hoping I will lead myself to safer, greener grounds
I am leading myself to safer, greener hopes
I am willing to lead myself to hopefully safer, greener grounds
I am grounding myself for not saving hopes of a greener leading will
Now I hope, I lead, I save and ground myself
I will save greener grounds for my leading hopes
I will lead my hopes to a greener, safer ground
I will willingly and hopefully safely lead myself to greener grounds.