When I kill myself, don’t tell anyone
I died because I was feeling sad.
Instead tell them about the time
I visited my grandma’s farm, when
I was about eight or nine
Tell them how I crawled through the hole
in her fence and walked to the place
that smelled like honeysuckle and peaches.
Tell them how I was able to lie on my back
and gaze through the trees and listen
to the peaches share their stories
about kids who bruise their skin when
they reach up in the trees
searching for the perfect peach.
While I inhale the peachy scent that
smells nothing like the candle,
I hear tears laced with their words and
I know they are the ones who are sad.
But just like all the others before me,
I stood up and reached for that one peach
that was way up high, the one silent peach,
the one whose skin had yet to be pierced
by clumsy, fumbling fingers.
Silence engulfed the grove that afternoon
as I held that perfect peach in my hand.
My pride swelled and throbbed
to the beat of my heart.
I was holding something special,
a peach I left sitting on the ground.
I just walked away.
When I kill myself, tell them I returned
to that spot in the grove and the peach was gone.
Tell them how I stood there feeling nothing at all,
not sadness or pain. And tell them I sat down to rest
but couldn’t find the strength
to get up again.
Peace & Love,