My favorite metaphor
for suicide
is “checking out”
because it says
here is my key:
the room where I was staying
I won't be needing
anymore
and my departure
proves it's not
a prison: I'm free to leave.
I do. This once
I take command
if in nothing
but this parting
gesture of refusal—and yes,
Javier, yes:
in this life death
is always maybe
only the least
twist away: some slightest
rotation and
you see your hand
x-rayed,
finger bones shining
through the film of skin—
but at 17
in a dorm room
blood welling
from mouth and nose,
already cold in your roommates’
arms—Javier,
Javier, too soon, too
soon