Wednesday, March 21, 2012

MBS

Cause of Death: Overdose

 

1. To All of You

Sorry is only two syllables. It's not a big enough word. I know that. But it's simple and it gets the point across.

I'm sorry to leave you this way. I am not leaving because of you. The largesse of your love, collectively as my loved ones, has been truly humbling. Know that I know that you all gave as well as you could, and that I am grateful to each and every one of you. My only hope is that I have shown you not only my gratitude, but also how much a privilege it has been to be a part of all of your lives.

I'm sorry that I wasn't strong enough to keep going. I fought every day, until eventually all of that fight got wrung out of me in tight wrenching twists. And now I'm just... withered, old in my heart and moldering at the edges.

I'm sorry that I just can't accept that you – or anyone else, for that matter – could ever accept me for exactly who I am.

Off now. My White Rabbit self reminds me impatiently that I am late, late, late for this, my most important of dates. Mustn't keep the Red Queen waiting.

 

 

2. To Myself

"Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy." – Proverbs 14:10

That was always your favorite Bible quote, wasn't it? You found it during those years when you were trying to win your mother back with Jesus in your corner, desperately hoping to impress upon her that you were more than some dispensable deviant-in-training.

Didn't quite work out, now did it?

So here you sit, in the bathtub of some nondescript hotel room (far away from both your hometown and from the town you've begrudgingly called home for so long), rambling on and hoping not to leave too much of a mess for the nameless Dominican maid who will find you tomorrow morning.

Raspberry dark chocolate on your tongue and enough Percocet to kill a professional wrestler, poured out into a bowl resting on the closed toilet lid, as innocuous-looking as a candy dish full of after-dinner mints.

Looks like you're ready to go.

You know, you tried this same way once before, when you were 19. Wrote a note in purple pen, jammed a fistful in your mouth, and laid down, hoping never to get back up again. But you did. And you were fucking pissed. You slogged through your school day scowling in the sunlight, doodling knives in notebook margins, crying quietly in the bathroom.

Remember that? Of course you do.

Not again.

 

No comments:

Post a Comment