By Divya Mondal
I have obsessed over death
Like one obsesses over a lover,
Thought of all the ways
I could get close, close enough.
Suicide is not a 50 word article
In the fourth page of a newspaper
But countless internet searches
Sylvia Plath put her head in an oven,
Virginia Woolf drowned herself
Filling her pockets with stones,
Hemmingway fired a shotgun into his mouth—
The question I keep asking myself is
What were they thinking?
Were they happy to let go?
Were they afraid?
Because I am—
I’m afraid of looking at the lines on my wrists
They’re not battle scars
But lashes for unnamed sins,
I’m afraid of nights
Where darkness is not confined to the sky
But becomes a default setting
And sleep refuses to obey the alarm clock,
I’m afraid of a room full of people
Anxiety is an uninvited guest at a social gathering
And I would rather be anti-social
Than face my fears.
I read Emily Dickinson to myself at night
And it is then I realize
Letting go has never been the hard part you see
It is life I'm afraid of.