suicide letter

This is not my first attempt.
There was a day when the sun shone in through the window
in a way that made the glare off the computer screen unbearable
and into microsoft word
I poured every spiteful word
and unnecessary cruelty.
I was thirteen years old and I felt as though
the sun were angry
did I even think about the sun?

There was a night in the parking lot of the giant
suburban mall
when I sat with my feet on the pavement
half inside the car
scratched at the veins in my wrist
and left only feeble white scratches
I screamed because I lacked the courage to do anything more.

There was a time so late it was morning
and I locked myself in the bathroom with my
razorblades
and looked at myself in the mirror.

Every thirteen year old wells up with spite and she imagines how it will be;
it will be gratifying, when they find her. they will know how much it hurt
and she will hurt them back, oh, she will hurt them
so it will scar.

I can't remember now, was it a feeling like being hollow, like a certain portion of the chest, or the stomach, just couldn't get full?

Was it that implicit sense of hurtling at a million mph at a brick wall, or even
down a lonesome highway where nothing
absolutely nothing would ever be different
would ever be new?

It is a new feeling now, one that strikes at different hours of the day, sometimes in the lazy pollenated afternoon
or evenings in a well-lit bedroom
with the fan turning lazy circles,
the desire to no longer be
not to end any specific misery
or to teach a lesson to anyone who had the audacity to love us
not to fill a hole by levelling it all out to an even
nothing

that feeling that strikes when we cannot
begin to determine what we would rather do
how to be happy
or feel less
(how can one feel less than I feel now? it is nothing)
we only know that it would be easier to cease
just cease.

and how many times between a first and second attempt does it sneak up on us at all times of day
I watched the red light at the far intersection
visible from my house
changing from red to green
with no rusty yellow interval; the rust comes later

as I've often noted
the lights change all night
whether there is someone there
or not.