7 of 8

I sit at my desk

staring into oblivion

of my silhouette on

the window.

the list on the table

keeps getting

longer

and longer

as days pass

then weeks

then months.

years.

 

time’s up.

 

my eyes blink

slowly

thinking hard for a reason

to be alive

again.

the dead-tired breaths

live on.

 

I think of the men

I’ve known

read about

who’ve been there

with no way out —

beaten up to their soul

fading away with

every breathe

striving while living

striving while walking

on their 23rd street in the

21st avenue in

the most ferocious of blizzards

while everyone else

stayed in &

watched

as they all got stuck

and fell seven times.

 

but sooner or later

they stood up eight

& walked

further than

anyone ever has.

 

everyone remembers the eighth.

 

some suicides are just never

recorded.