thoughts of suicide

are like a book

covered with sandpaper

which grates and ruins

any book kept next to it

on the shelf

*

a few days ago a friend jumped from

the fifth floor terrace where i don't hang

my clothes to dry because i think

there are better, more deserving clothes

that need the sun. we drank with him once

and we talked of love. he failed. he survived.

few months ago a girl tried the same

and won.

*

i think of my thoughts of suicide—

cold blade against warm wrist, a night

spent writhing against voices in the bathroom

like a shrivelled date blooming on a bruise,

up wide numb and awake elsewhere

with vomit streaked across my lips

like a comet that appears only once

against a sky that always exists—

and find the unreality of it all,

the thoughtness of it.

with my bare hands i tear away

the sandpaper and recover it with pressed

touched love and the little blood

reminds me that the book is good

and that the other books don't mind a few scars.

~ ajay

5/7/2023