Everyone mourns the teen suicide
O, adolescent angst!
Why couldn’t she just wait?

Or the death of the twentysomething.
It’s a hard time. It’s the death of some dreams—
but not really.

But suicide at forty? That’s just sad.
As in, that’s just a cliché.
As in, that’s just a bore.

J— writes of his attempt and I
envy his male ability to toss off
such a line and be sighed over, lovingly.

I think back to my own scratched wrist here,
bottle of pills there. Would I generate
such writerly admiration? No.

I could eat myself to death
but no one cares
about a fat woman’s death.

I imagine my sister calling my old friends from
the past and make my own eyes water
with the drama.

A Pushcart Prize nominee in 2009, TERRY ANN WRIGHT has published most recently in amphibius, Redheaded Stepchild, and DIAGRAM. She is currently dedicated to ridding the world of comma splices, one college freshman at a time.


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