beautiful suicide

village self.immolates |


| one . in which an agreement is reached for |


which must be, at the very least, successful. at the very least, an empty glass of milk, the leftover wade in a river, a small untied knot, a brother left right at home, a grimace ungrimmed.


must be left behind for others to talk about and find, about and find the note that says “I was always this serious,” about and find his posture cracked by the wind, about and find the the glass spread in a perfect arc, the body that left itself in the snow, no snow-angel or struggle at all.


must be a mysterious gift, an unopened fox, a doorbell ditch, an unseen grass blade’s meow in the night light, the woman who starved to death in front of a feast with a note addressed “dear children …”


must be a sacrifice, so beautiful the giver is among the missers. the tasted never gets a taste, that is taste-chaste, as he said “give these people freedom or I will hand myself to the ocean and let the ocean determine my fate.” 


must be risky, one shot, shoot straight, read by a man who hadn’t cared about beauty until now.


must be everything needs to fall into place, even yourself; you won’t have much control after a certain point of no return. 


must be a suicide and not a murder:

s - “don’t fuck with me.”

m - “I can’t.”

s - “don’t even try to then.”

m - “look. it’s not rape if we are both sterile.”


must be discovered immediately or eventually, since the more time passes, the more we feel the weight of the uncovering, the moon to say the least.  


must be a wanting to tell that is never told, a present that never futures, a plum we didn’t eat.


must be intentional, like the man who initiated his career as an accountant with a note that said “this is my suicide” and then, slowly, he let the numbers kill him over the period of just short of a lifetime. 


must be consistent such as one puzzle with three missing pieces and a memory of the box, not three puzzles mixed together with no memory.


must hint at hope. like a tiny ember that only breathes in your periphery, like a glint of a passing car, like the annulled marriage, like blindly feeling the face of an abstract idea.


must jump from the bridge for the both of them, will jump at his own and others request, will make it beautiful for himself and others, will leave the tragedy as a monument, will hope for a monument as small a one bolt from that bridge with his name on its head, will hope, as he falls, they won’t find his head in the river. 



| two . in which an agreement is made |


is laughing to death after two weeks of every level of in)sincerity of laughter. 


is treating yourself like a flower, letting the rain and sun repeat to your body with small drips and subtle burns “you are not a flower, you are not a flower, you are not a flower …” to death that you are definitely not a flower. 


is listening to death to what death


is chain yourself to the playground and throw away the key


is a martyr for a homeless man (I mean die for him, give him everything you own, switch places with him). 


is netflix and chill to death.


is fall out of a plane after telling you mother that it was all your fault


is don’t give suburbia the satisfaction of slitting your wrists in a bathtub.


is don’t let your suicide be a criticism of the world, let it be a question mark of beauty. let it be a statement of belief, not an anti-belief, not a loss of something. die for a reason. 


is the problem is, most of us haven’t found something worth dying for yet.


| three . in which the gas is poured |


I’d like to die like a tree, have someone cut me down with an axe.


I’d like to die like a flower, have someone pluck my head and put it in a glass of water


I’d like to die like a deer, hunted for nothing but sport, no be desired for nothing but my form, not my name, not my job, not my religion, nothing but the way I run through a forest and dip my head down to drink. no human could ever hunt me like this. only babies and aliens, perhaps. 


I’d like to die like a glass of milk left behind, slowly turning sour, slowly sounding like it always sounded like, a quiet puddle that smells different than it has ever smelled.


I’d like to die like a book, thrown in a bucket, swollen layers of skin and a spine trying to hold it all together, the words still there but perhaps stuck to themselves.


I’d like to die like a word, lost forgotten, unused, unthought of, taking my last breath with the brain that last breathed me. 


I’d like to die like a leaf, bursting in color and then falling to the plain brown earth, being knocked off by the wind. 


I’d like to die with my mother, just like she died, and at the same time, in similitude, both of us gasping, both of us watching the leaves fall out the window, the glass of milk half-drunk, the flowers at the bedside, and losing our breath the same moment the rifle cracks at the deer in the distance. 


but I didn’t die. I could never die like anyone else. I don’t know whether to be sad that all deaths are had separately, or



| four . in which the match is lit |


even our deaths are lonely

even these events we call death, each happens in solitude

if our deaths were speaking to each other at a bar,

hunched over on the counter, 

having their separate drinks

even they wouldn’t know what the other one was like. 


we don’t just die alone

we leave our deaths lonely


but in the end


all suicides are beautiful


I will be sad

of all suicides


here are these words

each falling down the page

leaping off of the title

it might be a few moments

but when we get to the end

of the page

don’t be scared when the text ends

don’t be scared of the bottom

where there is nothing. 


| funeral