Please note: this story references suicide.
Death is never dignified, but the ending of a good story should be magnificent.
Not swinging from a rope with shit, piss and jizz running down your legs,
or vomiting luminous yellow bile and a chalky cocktail of pharmaceuticals surrounding you.
No poetry, no love letters, no essays that you write, can explain away the pain that you inflict on others when you take away your life, it is those you leave behind that are left to pick up the endless litter of a life wasted.
It's not that I am unsympathetic.
I have lost loved ones to suicide and self destruction through the torture of addictive substances.
I too have let one too many pills pass my lips and felt charcoal sips turn to regurgitation, heaving and purging up my shame, my latest bid for freedom, failure always tastes more bitter on the way back up.
I have cut and sliced and stood at dizzying heights by deep flowing water and watched my tears merge into the sea and felt it call to me, the soothing tease of 'jump'.
But no rest comes to those you leave behind.
No free pass to silence for your loved ones.
Previously well adjusted people become empty, bitter, ever guilty, 'always angry at You' victims.
Blind eyes turn away through pity for the refugees of you.
A storybook of 'what if's' with a never happy ever after, signed by you; like a ransom, you hold hostage their last peaceful nights sleep.
And the shock, the white, bright, humming shock, flashing flashing flashing,
your life before their eyes, you make them feel your pain, only too late.
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