I store my suicide letters the way older people store love letters—locked in an old cupboard I used to scribble on as a child. They don't look like much, just a few creases here and there; a stain in the upper right hand corner of one and a drop of blood from when I cut my own arm open. They're addressed to anyone—no one really. I felt it was an artsy way to go out; one lonely hipster addressing his thoughts to the first person to discover his dead body.
They're not concrete by any means. They're filled with simple sentences and grammatical errors. They don't even go past half a page. I apologize in one, bid farewell in another, and even divide my belongings in the third. But no matter how many I read they all say the exact same thing. They speak of a young soul caught at a cross roads; a place so foreign he begs to be let go. How do we reach such despair at a young age? And, why did I choose to keep going?
I saw my despair in the lined pages I wrote on, scribbled in notebooks, and splattered on canvases. It screamed at me in the sleepless nights I battled, scathed my brain as I cut my own flesh, and distorted my reality as I gave in to paranoid delusions. My despair engulfed me. It became a part of my own. My notes are neatly stacked to the left, covered with a light dusting of dust mites, and kept a secret from my family. While they all read as an ending, they truly act as a beginning to an untold story.