they say that a person who’s contemplating suicide
will often start giving away things they once held dear
a favorite hat
a beloved stuffed moose
a ring from their great grandmother
if you notice the slow seeping of a life’s treasures
through spread fingers
you’re supposed to speak up
where were the questions when
I handed out my library book by book
after years of cultivation?
who thought it strange when
I gave away altar pieces like old garage sale junk?
my shirts and blouses
flowy bits of my femininity
were shucked into a bin along with my long hair
chunks of myself tossed out like old garbage
and no one said a thing
if I’d planned a permanent vacation in Hades
the silence was my first class ticket
NOTE: First, know this isn’t a guilt trip poem to anyone who was around when I was depressed enough to make suicidal behavior a concern. This poem is just an outlet, not an accusation.
Secondly, if you’re feeling suicidal and happen across this poem, please ask for help outright. Stranger or friend, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t let silence be the reason you kill yourself, okay?