On the eve of your suicide
remove embarrassing things such as
the evidence of your masturbation,
the pages of swear words written for your mother,
the discovery of hatred for your drunken father,
and the lines of scribbled gibberish
in the attempt to pull yourself
through your dark tunnel of pain.

On the eve of your suicide
scrub the soot from the poison candles
off your bathroom walls.
Wipe that filthy mark off the closet doorjamb:
The imprint of your open and desperate hand
clutching as you leaned in
to ask the paper wishing fairy
for a partner, a lover
or just someone safe to share your bed.

On the eve of your suicide
check for visible signs of unfinished work.
Destroy the projects that, if completed
would have been It,
the key to your salvation.

Imagine the old heads shaking sorrowfully,
teeth rattling in the skull:
Rattling for you
the one expected to rise like a phoenix from the perfumed ashes
of witch burnings,
rapes, mental institutions,
and long slow deaths by silence.

Imagine the teeth
rattling for you,
the one who looked like Lupe,
the one who could have made it
if you had only endured the pain
a moment longer.

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Sensational Stereos

© Melt Magazine 2003