Dead leaves and the dirty ground

To whoever finds this,

I hate the mantra that ‘suicide is selfish'.

Suicide is beautiful; you are finally in control of your life. Nothing plans when they die; nothing knows how they are going to die. But suicide gives you that glory of being in control of your own death, gives you control of when it is time to rest. Death is unpredictable; you never know when the reaper is around the corner, when it’s about to jump out at you with its scythe. Suicide gives you the upper hand, a way to trick the reaper and its games. You are calling out to it before it calls out to you.

When you die, you slowly compost; first you rot and bloat, but soon you return to the earth; you become one with nature. Flowers bloom where you lay; worms feed off of your nutrients in the soil, the birds eat the worms, and the predators eat the birds. It’s beautiful. The circle of life happens because of you, and that is a beauty that not many get to experience. I just want to return to the earth; to feed the birdies and worms.

I have a hemangioma on my forehead, smack dab in the middle; it's faded now, but the raised bump is still there if you look. Mother said it was an angel’s kiss; I think she’s a liar. If it is true that an angel blessed me by giving a kiss on my forehead, then it is my duty to return to the angels.

Most suicide letters are ones saying how much the world is horrible, nihilism basically. But I think the world is beautiful; I just don’t think I’m fit for it. I don’t believe in nihilism; I think it’s childish. It’s childish to blame all your problems on the world, childish to believe the world is only bad. It’s not that the world is bad, but you are bad. I am greedy, gluttonous, lustful, selfish, and angry. The ache of anger grows inside of me every day, eating away at my skeleton, my fibers. By committing suicide, I am taking away those negative things in the world. The hurt I bring into the world will be gone; it will be no more. Everything I touch turns sour; as my fingers graze this pen, it has started to turn tart. If you would pop a piece of me in your mouth, your lips would pucker from my flavor. By returning to the earth, I am allowing myself to become sweet, to get rid of the sour coating on my shell. I am reducing down into my basic parts, reducing back into the sweet thing called dirt.

I deserve to die, but I deserve to die by my own control. I lack control in my life; so much seems to be out of reach, out of my grasp. But dying is my way of gaining control. I am not a good person; I lie, steal, and am the first to talk badly about others. I continue the chain of hurt in this world. But denying living, denying that I deserve a life, is my way of rebellion, of undoing what I did.

My parents were never supportive of me in anything I did. I was just made wrong, I guess. Everything I did was my fault, my whole being was my fault, and they made sure I knew that. It’s strange, I know; my mother told me I was kissed by an angel, but only to treat me like a devil. Every waking moment of mine has been told about how awful I am, how undeserving I am, and I suppose they are right. Sadly, it’s the truth; they are right, no matter how bitter it is to say.

Back when I was a young child, I was attacked by a dog. I was wandering in an area I shouldn’t have been, in my neighbor’s backyard. As I made my way through the bushes, I heard a growl, and I turned around; a big black pit bull came sprinting at me. I still have the scars, but because of my gross negligence, the dog was put down. The dog was put down because of my selfish need to go where I did not belong. Someone lost their treasured companion because of some kid. Everyone was beyond angry at me, rightfully so. I am angry at me too. But when I go to heaven, I can apologize to the black dog, tell them I was just a foolish child, that I took my life to undo my wicked ways.

I might be wicked and cowardly, but suicide is my act of courage. It takes a lot of courage to pull the trigger, to down the pills, to tie the noose. Many people feel the call of suicide, but few have the courage to acutally do it. God gave me the strength for that courage; I don’t believe in him really, but I prayed for courage, and whoever rules over the sky granted it to me. I have been cowardly throughout my life, always backing down from a fight, never defending the people that mean most to me. But by letting my life go, I am earning back every piece of courage I left behind.

I have decided it is my time; the flowers are calling to me. Every time I walk outside, I hear the quiet lullaby of them singing to me, of them cooing at me. I put my ear up to them, and they whisper to me secrets, secrets I cannot even tell you, dear reader. Maybe one day the flowers will speak to you; I sure hope not, it’d be a shame to lose someone like you. Unless you are like me, someone running from their true self, someone who is escaping a fate full of wickedness, then I will see you in the next life. Do not mourn me; I do not deserve that. My life is not one to be celebrated either.

By the time you discover this, I will be dead. I plan on hanging myself on my ceiling fan and leaving this on the chair by my bed. So atleast you have somewhere comfy to sit as you read this.

My suicide is my act of defiance against myself.

I don’t have much left to write about; I wanted to keep this short and sweet. I do not want to bore you with the woes of my life; just give you my reasoning.

Until I see you cross over that rainbow bridge.

Love,

Presley

A/N: Been really into short stories/letters recently. This one is named after a White Stripes song. Anyway, this isn’t real, just stuff of my imagination.