The Last Day

Life is rough. Some people love you, some people hate you. The thing is, those who hate you, always hate you. Those who love you though, aren’t always that nice. Confusion clouds the minds of those around me. Are they excited to see me or are they fucking pissed at me? Hug or slap? Smile or cry? So yeah, there’s that…


Then there’s the fuckers who say that those who commit suicide are the ones taking the easy road. Fuck no. You wake up, feeling dead, lost. Your parents are at work already. As usual. Your inbox is empty, and your window is smashed in.  Oh, new message. “Go kill yourself”. Perfect right? Not like you didn’t already want to… Thanks for cheering me on dude.


You go up to your room, and make the mistake of looking into a mirror, and just stare. Cause this person in front of you can’t be you right? They look so familiar, but it’s just a little off… A bit too fat, too many spots, rank teeth? Anyway you’ve seen a chick flick, who are we kidding you’ve seen them all, so you know what I’m on about. Why the fuck are you in this body?


And that’s who you are for the rest of the day. The fuck in the mirror. The ugly shit who doesn’t increase the value of any aspect of the human race. Yay. Carry on through the day and you have the perfect recipe for sadness, pain, and, well, just shit. 


Back home. You slam your front door, wincing since it was just a little too loud. You toss your keys in the general direction of the bowl you have sitting on your kitchen table, who the fuck has a bowl for keys? Meh, won't be doing that soon enough, might as well not bother putting your things away safely. You can't loose stuff when you're dead.


You definitely won't miss the squeak of the floor boards as you trudge up the stairs, constantly reminding you of your very existence. Then suddenly it all hits you. It's real, this time... This time you'll succeed. 


It's getting late, but who cares, can't be tired when you're dead... But you have to pick what to wear. Yes, true, you won't hear what people say, but society right? You have to represent yourself, your little menial self, in those last moments. Cause thats how everyone will see you. That's how you will be remembered. Not what they did to you, not what they said, not why you fucking did it. That's not what matters here. Beauty even in death. When you can’t hide your nakedness. When you know your body will be cut open, inspected, tested. Your imperfections recorded, analysed, just like they did at school.


White shirt to symbolise your purity, but maybe not those shorts. Oh go on what the hell, all white. Yes cliche but maybe someone will talk about you positively for once. Any accessories? No, definitely not. Just like those celebrity fashion articles about how simple is always better. But, it is a what the hell day, so maybe... Everything?


Time to run the bath. Have you ever had a bath with your clothes on? That shit weighs a ton. And you have to make sure its just the right temperature. Cause it’s your last right? No more, no less than perfect. Everything you couldn't manage with yourself. And who wants to die thinking of the fact that they should have turned the hot nob just a little to the left. Maybe for once you can do something right…


Entering the bath should be easy but, just like everything else in your life, it's not. This is where you make your last minute checks. Are you sure? Are you really sure? Really super sure? What about your favourite ice cream? Can't eat that again. Or cuddle up with your mum and dad watching a movie, can't have sex, can't kiss, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. Fuck, panic attack. Shit shit shit! Calm down. Breathe deep, grab your chest, breathe, don't forget to breathe. Fuck you're not sure you wanna do it, are you?


Your phone screen flashes. "Kill yourself."... It's time. You're ready.


Now to the pain. Have you ever nicked your skin? That shit hurts. To slice your veins, that kills. It sounds easy right? You can’t just do it on the surface you morons… You need to cut through skin, flesh, tendons and finally your veins, all the while your arm screaming in pain, hot red goo spraying over you, your insides facing out… But you’re still not done. With that gaping wound on your arm, you now must repeat the process… 


If you were smart, you would have sliced with your dominant hand so that you could manoeuvre the next, more painful cut. Cause don’t forget, you’ve sliced through quite a few nerves, so you’re fingers won’t respond quite right… Funny. So here you go again, skin, flesh, tendons, and finally the veins. 


Hold up, we’re not quite there yet. You’re not suddenly dead. No, you start to go cold, slowly, like a heated room in the winter during a power outage. You start to shake, your lips go numb, and every breath gets heavier. Not by much… It’s slow. It’s all so slow. At first you can’t even tell… 


Then you start noticing every breath. In, out… In, out… In, in, no it’s not working, in, in, out… Still not there. See you might be an unlucky fuck… You might hear the faint cries of your parents, sobbing, begging you to stay, fighting to keep you alive, grasping you, hugging you, just like you always wanted. You might want to grab on, take that one last hug, say goodbye… That’s when you’re fucking gone. Never say it’s easy. Cause the journey there wasn’t either.


Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world
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