The contemplation of suicide never seems to fully make its way out of your head.
It seems as though nothing is real anymore.
The end is only waiting.
But what is the end?
Eternal darkness with no conscious?
A heaven filled with golden streets and saved virgins?
An eternal feeling of anguish in a dark firey pit of hell?

No one has ever talked to the dead.
I imagine sometimes if we would want that horror.
Simply knowing and anticipating.
But if we could, what kind of message would you send?
Would it be about them, or us?
Would you ask them what happens?
And would you expect them to tell?

So you sit here and have bled.
You feel as though there is little to explore.
And you find yourself contemplating.
Would you consider death your friend?
A lifelong companion to give your last kiss?
Are you comfortable with how this begins?
Now that is the feeling of death, can't you tell?