The Circle of Pain

Life hates me I write to my wife.
Suicide note.
I look up to see my father’s gaze staring back at me  through a a photograph.
Tears rain like God’s wrath down my face.
No sound is emitted.
It is a black and white photo.
The pills are in my pipes.
I cry out for my father.
Grabbing the photo, I break it open and gently pull out the picture.
I curve into a fetal position with tears and my dad’s photo.
He loved me, he really did.

I remember our camping trips when I was eight years old.
I remember playing hide and seek.
I remember him telling me the nighttime sky was life and I was one of its stars.
I remember him rocking me to sleep as he sang me softly into slumber.
I remember his genital smile and warm hug.
I want it one more time.
Things I took without regard.

He was a good person.
Always loving me despite my faults.
Here I was going to die a pathetic man.
On a kitchen floor.
In a small house.
Nothing accomplished.
Nobody expected nobody expecting.
Here in this fetal position.
Here I will die.
Here I will perish into the nothingness I was once so afraid of.
I’m sorry father I say out loud.
I am sorry I am a failure.