I found you tonight, tucked away amongst books I haven’t read in years but love too much to throw away. I’m getting ready to move, packing books in suitcases and clothes in boxes because I can’t stay here forever.
I can’t stay here forever: trapped in the past–but I can’t move forward until I move out, can’t live until I leave the place where I tried to die.
I found you tonight, and I’m not sure which time I wrote you. What darkest of nights were you conceived in? You’re older now; the pen marks starting to fade, dust gathered around your edges as you’ve laid undisturbed, forgotten.
I shouldn’t be personalizing you, making you sound more poetic than you really are. Because there’s nothing poetic about your blood stained page, the tear marks from where my feelings escaped. There’s nothing poetic about the way I felt that night I wrote you.
But there’s poetry in the healing; there’s beauty in the midst of pain; there’s power in letting go.
I found you tonight, amidst the memories I’m leaving behind, amidst the baggage and the pain. And where I’m going, you can’t come. There’s not a place for you there: a one-bedroom apartment too small for elephants to take up residence in rooms.
The point is, I’m still suicidal. But these suicide notes, these letters of pain and despair, hopelessness and darkness have no place in my future. A future in which I’m moving forward. And this is not the post I wanted to write tonight. I wanted to write about the process of purging while trying to move, but I guess in a way, that’s what I’m doing.
I’m purging the memories. Years of memories are sitting in boxes before me. I’m purging the past, as I try to make space for the future, making space for love and happiness and laughter. There’s no room for you there.
Dear suicide note. You are no longer an “is.” You’re a “were.”