An Open Letter To the Kids Sitting Next To Me

The is a slam poem, and tends to be better received when heard rather than read. o well.

Making suicide jokes is a lot like 

eating with your hands

in a five star restaurant:

you think you're being funny

but actually, you're just an a*****e.

Making suicide jokes is a lot like

kicking a puppy:

they should be able to "suck it up"

but actually, you're just an a*****e.

Sixth grade, bloody nose,

matted hair

and one too many bruises to be

from a tree climbing accident.

"Get over it."

Seventh grade, red eyes

red wrists

red floor,

red,

red,

red.

"You're being dramatic."

Eighth grade, hollow hips,

hollow mind, and yellow teeth.

A cigarette burn in the carpet

and that stain over there-

"There are people who are worse off."

Ninth grade, nighttime.

A glass of water, and a 

very

bad

idea.

Tenth grade, nothing.

Eleventh grade, nothing.

Twelfth grade, nothing.

College age, mid-twenties, middle age, nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Where's the punchline, 

I don't get it?"

The punchline is at the end of a rope.

The punchline is down the barrel of a gun,

or at the bottom of a bottle of pills,

and I don't know about you, but there's nothing very funny

in a note that only says 

"I'm sorry."

Making suicide jokes is a lot like

eating with your hands

in a five star restaurant,

only not.

Making suicide jokes is a lot like 

kicking a puppy,

only not.

Making suicide jokes is a lot like

fueling a fire

that's already out of control.

Like blowing on a house of cards

that's already unsteady,

and watching them scatter

everywhere, only, we are not cards

and it's not that pretty.

So go ahead and tell me that joke

one

more 

time,

because I don't think I got it.

Author's Note

Again, imagine someone really angry speaking this. Right?