Letters to the end of the sidewalk II

Suicide Footnote

“Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the most unnameable lust returns…” Anne Sexton, “Wanting to Die”

The truth is, I’m never unmarked by that voyage. The truth is the lust to die is ever present, like a freckle on my face or the smell of my hair. It never changes, never seeks an equilibrium the way water seeks its own level. It’s always right there underneath the surface. Under my skin. My soul always wishes to die and become someone else, ever floating above the ethereal earthiness given to everyone at birth.

I know the curves of your face and every speck of hazel spun around your eyes. I could find you in the dark of a moonless night by phantoms of your scent and the glow of your soul. I know how you breathe when you sleep. I know what side you fall asleep on and the side that you wake up on.

I could stand in a room of women and you would never see me. Standing in the rain, the only thing that you would see is a glimmer of my shadow in the rain drops that drown me out of your sight. I don’t think you even know what I smell like. You couldn’t find me with your eyes shut. You can’t even with them open.

I once told you that this was what I had to do because I loved you. You’ll never understand what that means. I’ll never understand why you wouldn’t let me die.

I’ve written enough suicide notes to make a collection of letters. In every one I am unable to explain anything to you. They always tell you to make a list of reasons to live and make a list of reasons to die. No one ever tells you what to do when the list of reasons to live gets smaller and smaller. They never tell you what to do when you realize that you have become invisible.