I have killed myself.
I've been dead
face down
unbreathing
in my room for nearly four minutes.
I wonder what they'll do when they find me;
my empty bottle of perscription pills
still in my hand,
and in my stomach all the anxiety and psychological mysteries
cured.
The crumpled letter with words of 27 years regretting
every decision I ever made,
the decisions I haven't made,
and the ones they made for me.
I bet my funeral will be beautiful
even though I never was.
I never believed anyone that told me I was.
Roses on my gravestone,
maybe a message inscribed about me being a wonderful friend,
wife, and daughter.
Something else people have laced up about me.
I wish they'd stop lying.
Did you know I knew Cobain?
Yeah,
in middle school we had classes together,
we'd talk about our poems
our drawings
and home life.
How he wanted to play guitar
but just didn't understand it.
He couldn't make it to my funeral;
He was late by 4 months, in killing time.
Years from now I'd be excluded from family history,
no matter how beautiful, talented, or comedic I was.
I'm in a grey photo frame
an old sepia snapshot
of 1994
perscription pills still in my hand.
The flannel still by my torn jeans
the grotesque sense of being
forming in my mind
behing great walls of converse boxes full of conspiracies.
A future image of myself
flaking skin and
dry
torn lips, smiling at the world we live in.
It's a disbelieving smile.
This world
                  has
                            killed me.