Notes Toward Endings
by Troy James Weaver, 3.24am July 10th 2021

In the past, sometimes you tried. Slit wrists, roped neck. It doesn’t matter what people say. What they said. It doesn’t matter what you say. What you said. It doesn’t matter that most people understand how poisonous this world is to their souls, because you ignore it, pretend they don’t understand, lie to yourself. Why would you do that to them? Why would I do this to you? Why do you need to know anything? Why do we? If you could tell me one thing, I wish it would be this: I understand. 

But I’m not holding my breath. You’re unable to articulate the inarticulate gut-space speaking too loudly inside you. I don’t understand it either. That would be impossible. Ask a tumor why it’s killing you. Impossible. I’ve watched you for so long you don’t even know I’m there. You’ve watched me for so long you know it’s over. 

We’ve danced these grounds before. I’ve seen the lacerations. You’ve seen the bruises. It wouldn’t hurt you to open up. It would hurt me. You understand this. Sometimes just the motions are enough to make it real. Like driving a car, you think about swerving over and off an overpass. I tell you these thoughts are normal. But don’t do it, you might hurt somebody who isn’t you. I don’t care if you hurt me. You know this. You don’t care if I hurt you. I know this. 

Every once in a while, since childhood, ideas manifest, but you always find yourself opening your eyes to some fucking hero. You never thank them, which I’ve always found troubling. But my nature tells me you know best. Over the years the pain has left for long periods only to return and deflate you, a black cat on your chest, out of nowhere. I’ve had to kill the cat on many occasions. You know they have more than nine lives, don’t you. You were unable to kill its newest resurrection, so I tried, only to fail all over again. 

On the morning of the 5th of January, you tied one end of rope around a beam in your basement and the other around your neck. I became the hero that time. You hated me. I hated you too. What happened to us? Don’t answer that. It will only be an echo. You got mad, started yelling, “I just want to be free. Fuck you.” We wrestled our way into the bathroom. The struggle couldn’t have been more real. You picked up a razor and went for my wrist. I grabbed your arm, the one holding the razor, and told you I loved you. The razor hit linoleum and tears came. I wiped my eyes, watching you. You splashed your face with water and looked into the mirror. “I fucking hate you,” you said. You punched the mirror over and over, distorting me. Our hands filled with blood. Through the cracks, I couldn’t see you anymore.