Note: the following is not a suicide note.  It's simply a reflection of my daily struggle, of the omnipresence of ideation I've lived with since I was 8, and particularly since my love passed away.  

I'm a poet; I often write for the purpose of catharsis, as a way to exorcise certain tendencies.

I'm not a danger to myself, and in fact, I'm committed to doing everything in my power to stay in this beautiful and terrible world.  

...

Today marks one month without my Carrie by my side, 

And as I sit here in my deep, soft velvet reading chair, 

My breakfast of a 

Quartered apple 

And a bowl of coffee on the Little Yellow Table before me, 

Showered, and perfumed, 

Dressed, and shod,

I can't help thinking that today, 

This moment

This spot 

Might be the perfect

Day

Moment, and 

Spot 

To crack open my father's bottle of Oxy,

And down them with my morning coffee.