A Letter for the Foresaken

‎How does one write a beautiful suicide note?

‎But suicide and beautiful cannot exist on the same sentence,

‎You have to endure suffering before you can decide that it is enough

‎The reasons you write down should be enough to those who will read,

‎You shall be judged if reasons you provided

‎Do not suffice,

‎But what is sufficient for you may not even be slightest to us

‎I am gonna blame my mother for all the late nights she came from work,

‎When I have to neglect myself and become a parent

‎To my five siblings, whom she cannot tell their favourite colours

‎I do not want to think how she made sacrifices for us to sleep,

‎In warm blankets with our bellies full

‎Suicide letters do not want you to put yourself in others shoes,

‎This is the worn out shoes that I am presenting to a museum

‎Shoes of a wanderer who decided that he will no longer walk again,

‎But my father never got tired of walking away from his responsibilities

‎He replaced his shoe soles whenever we tried to reach him on his new phone,

‎The letter is never done justice if I do not include a father's absent love

‎It is absent love that this letter is written in the first place,

‎A place which has you deciding whether you prefer a rope or a bullet

‎In your face,

‎A decision is often centred around whether you still love your body

‎Those who were never fully ready wants a pretty face in the casket,

‎A slow and painful death,

‎Hoping someone might walk through the door

‎To call an ambulance and save them,

‎But she has failed to save me despite sleeping next to her for a decade

‎All she could have asked was,

‎How can I help you?

‎Why is you heartbeat distant when I am in your arms at night?

‎But the approach is often addressed as a confrontation of miscommunication

‎I am questioned if there is someone else in my life when I do not open up,

‎To her

‎Someone who I prefer to speak to

‎But you should open me up,

‎Find pieces I am ashamed of inside me

‎And love them,

‎Love me with them

‎I can also go on to blame my children who often times disregarded me,

‎I do not have to know what has led them to behave in this manner

‎I can also blame God,

‎He never escapes blame when nothing seems to work out in one's life

‎It his all his fault that he allows a premature death to occur

‎I have waited long for Him to give me reasons to not go through with this

‎All the reasons I can think of in the world and something is still missing,

‎The pastor told me that God works in mysterious ways

‎How mysterious would be my death if I do not pen out this letter,

‎This letter can never be enough to those who read it

‎If I continue it would be a book which I might fall in love with,

‎Then I start to think it is something people might want to read

‎Something which people might love and discuss in book clubs,

‎And forget about killing myself

‎For then all that I carried inside would be something to someone

‎All I ever wanted was to be something to someone, in return

‎You could be something to someone and be misunderstood in return,

‎You cannot always be understood but an attempt to do so is enough

‎It was enough for her to beg me to talk to her,

‎It was enough that mother provided for us when I looked after the children

‎It was enough for me to accept that I cannot expect love

‎From a father who does not want to be there,

‎It was enough for my children to be distant to understand

‎That is a call for me to sit down and ask what is wrong,

‎To ask how they were copying with school and constant societal pressures

‎Threatening a coup on their personal identities,

‎It was enough for me to wake up in the morning

‎To decide that today, things will be better

‎This is what I was struggling to write from the beginning of this letter

‎It takes a surgery of the soul for the body to heal,

‎Healing requires that I store this letter to show my children

‎When they come across ropes on trees calling out their names,

‎For you do not have to show up at the door of everything

‎And everyone,

‎That calls your names

‎And sometimes suicide could be heard of as sweetheart,

And the ceiling could appear as a crowd cheering you up,

The stool you stand on as a stage which gives you recognition

What you needed all along and never given

If you are not careful enough in a crowd.

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