Don’t tell me these kids are weak
The weak would never dance the line between life and death
Would never press metal to organ, press end to life
Because the hardest part of a suicide is that final step:
The fall comes after in the dizzying rush
But before that is the knowing that it all ends
That no more oxygen will come
No more kisses or bruises, no more shame or desire
The end stretches to an infinity of uncertainty
In those last few moments, there is a lifetime
To remember each caress and clenched fist
To consider what it would be liked to be locked in a box
Six feet underground, screaming
And those that still chose to jump, to slice,
To dice open their soul to the blank cosmos
They are brave
And in pain
And have been failed
By this world
Because their choice to press delete
To end game. No save. Nothing but blank screen
No credits left to roll over dead body
That choice they make
Is done knowing their souls have already dug their graves
Have already lived in the darkest recesses of night, screaming requiems,
And our split second judgement, our careless comment
(Why didn’t they just ask for help?)
Is a brand that won’t show on the body already burning.
© Zaynab Asmal
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Matriculant 2013
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