The life I have lived has been, I guess, so-so. Nothing exciting. No drama. No adventure. Maybe I’ve just gotten to the point of “why does my life really matter any longer.” Seventy-three and really, very little to show for it.

So, today, I am going to end this personal pain I have lived. No longer will I have to contend with all the what if’s and why not’s.

In a way, it is almost funny. I have spoken with others about suicides they were contemplating, explaining they have too much going for themselves to sit around and plan their death. I give them straight answers, or reasons, why they need to live. The funny part is I can find no reason, no justification for wanting to breath through another day.

The extended family I have are spread out. Parent long since gone. I live alone and have for the better part of five years. Five—Long—Years.

I think it’s time I put a lid on this and shut this old body down. Make a little room for the younger crowd to replace my spot in life.

The state will have to bury me as my insurance doesn’t cover suicides and that too, is funny. A death is a death is a death, so why wouldn’t they? Oh well. I have no time to get into that sorted affair.

No, no bullet to the brain. I might chicken out. Not going to hang myself either for the same reason. I intend to go quietly. I plan to die in my car sitting in the garage. Shove a banana in the tailpipe, that way the exhaust system won’t be replaced with fresh air. Leave the windows up. Crank the motor and I figure I’ll be dead in maybe fifteen minutes. Painless.

I often said I wanted to go quietly, you know, while sleeping, but I keep waking up every morning and this is my only solution. Carbon-Monoxide poisoning, plain and simple.

I leave with no regrets. Well, maybe one. My book of poetry never was published as promised. Such are the ways of life and such are the endings in death.

I used to try to kill myself a little every day.

My words were my poison of choice,

And my mind swallowed them willingly.

You're ugly, you're fat, you're stupid.

Why can't you just be normal?

No one really likes you,

They stay in your life out of convenience or pity.

No one really loves you unless they're forced to,

because you manipulated them into it,

because they're bound by blood to ignore your many flaws.

You haven't accomplished anything important.

Your best years are behind you and you took them for granted.

You should just have some kids to save yourself from the ostracization because

Everyone knows that otherwise you'll die alone.

Don't you know you'll never be truly happy?

I fed myself a steady diet of self-hate until my veins turned black

The color of the deepest pit in the darkest room I'd only ever seen in nightmares

It smothered me like a weighted blanket I couldn't free myself out from under

Disoriented me so I became lost in my own house

Deprived of oxygen, my blood became a toxin that attacked my insides.

It caused:

My neurons to misfire!

My heart to constrict!

My lungs to deflate!

Until soon I was certain I would die in my sleep,

Consumed by the turbulent and vast waves

Of my own emotions drowning me.

But to my surprise,

Each day the sun still rose.

Each day the light shone through my window,

Casting a curious ray across my eyes that made them squint at first

Until eventually it cast out the shadows too,

And I was finally able to see that

This was no way to Live.

It was a way to Die.

And if I was ever going to

Sing another song,

Write another story,

Laugh another day,

I wouldn't be able to do it alone...

So I got help.

And slowly the two of us sucked the poison out

From years of self-inflicted wounds

This expert stranger and me.

Until there was so much ruby red blood in my veins

That I put lipstick on just to match

And stepped in front of the mirror to thank myself

For staying alive.

Now I try to rebuild myself

With caring words, true words

The kind of words that are the antidote.

I recite them to keep the poison at bay

A little every day.

You swallowed the poison before you could defend against it. Cradled, no, clenched, in the arms of one who could not love anyone, least of all herself, you swallowed the poison from her breast. Her words of despair colored with contempt filled your ears as you sought sustenance from she who would have let you starve if she could. Nay, she did. Starved of love and affection, you gorged on the hatred she spewed even as you grew in her womb. You devoured the words that branded you worthless; a useless piece of trash that would have been better off on the end of a twisted hanger. You guzzled her derision, her belittling, that mirrored and reinforced that which was fed to you on the streets, in the movies, in school, in books, newspapers and magazines.

You had a belly full of poison before you were five.

You tried. You really did. You wanted to do and be all that you could be. To be all that she wanted and needed you to be. But nothing was the firm and oft-repeated answer in both cases.You are nothing and will always be nothing, was the mantra of your childhood and adolescence.

By 14, you were looking for the antidote to the invisible poison putrefying your mind and body. The salve to soothe the festering wound from which spilled your very soul.

You did find your cure, with its silent death knell, that, with every bottle, merely added to a belly already full of poison, hastening your rendezvous with oblivion.

It says right on the label, but I had used my man-vision, unfortunately, reaching for what I thought was quite something else. This, however, burns. All the way down. I fall back in horror as I realize I may have just poisoned myself.

However, before I call Poison Control, I have to ask myself, Is this really a bad thing? After all, I had toyed with the ol’ to-be-or-not-to-be many times. This mortal coil could be unraveled.

But from the inside? The label is a serious portent: “Serious gastric disturbances.”

I lower myself into a chair, fireside, but the fire is out. I should busy myself and start a fire, shouldn’t I? But soon the subterranean activity begins. Gurgling and gargling in the lower registers, in my lower levels, with a rumbling tactile feedback I can feel down my entire abdomen. Then the vise grabs me. A sinewave of undulation rumples through my tracts, snapping at the end with a fetid puff of noisome smoke, a blob of noxious, unstable gas--a retrospect of maldigestion in the aether that settles across several realms of the multiverse. “Run for your life!” comes to mind, but there is no running from this. The pressure builds into a throbbing Pandora’s box that strains to contain that which will detonate into a seismic wave that will level a progressive zone of death--to the horizon first--then expanding a periphery of malady from the ill-wind, then finally settling into a somber chagrin ultimately stopped by the shores of a grateful sea.

The “serious gastric disturbances” coalesce into sudden and total intestinal chaos. There are a thousand electrified, acidic pinpricks that buckle me at the knees, and I fall out of the chair onto the floor, as if in supplication. It is supplication indeed--divine supplication, for this torment, arising from Hell, could only be routed by the supernatural. I exude this evil with a turbulent cacophony of malodorous pollution.

My output is body temperature, slightly warming the room, but I shiver from either the cold or my colicky crush. I will light that fire.

It isn’t the poison that kills me, but the explosion when I strike the match.

i got a belly full o' poison that you fed to me,

a million painful truths wrapped up in my esophagus.

i got a pocket full of nightshade that i pop like pills

i got a wallet full of hemlock and it's giving me chills.

i got a belly full o' poison that you fed to me,

a million painful truths wrapped up in my esophagus.

i got a bowl full of razor blades that i can't wait to swallow

i drank a bottle of tide and woke up feeling hollow.

i got a belly full o' poison that you fed to me,

a million painful truths wrapped up in my esophagus.

i got a bowl full of tainted blood that i sucked from a goat

i let the cold red liquid slide down my throat.

i got a belly full o' poison that you fed to me,

a million painful truths wrapped up in my esophagus.

i downed a bullet coated in lead and prayed for it to end me

when i read obituaries i'm always filled with envy

because i got a belly full o' poison that you fed to me,

a million painful truths wrapped up in my esophagus,

and all i want is for all that undigested shit

to come out the other end.

so that the next time i swallow poison,

i can say

"see you on the other side."

the taste was bitter on her tongue

she set the glass back down

and slumped back in her chair

gazing at the ceiling

and waiting for the poison

to consume her

it had taken a long time to gather

this~

it wasn't courage

but she wasn't giving up

either

it was something different

it was time to let go

to leave this world made

of bones and ash

behind

it was what inside her

that hurt the most

thoughts and memories

she wanted them to burn

like the liquid

that had crawled

down her throat

but nothing's happening

yet

so she just

waits

and anticipates~

Belly Full of Poison. Fuel poised to pour in. Salt in the wound will get you cursing. Sure thing. Pissing vinegar. Bloody bile. In the corners of their smile. The wild child within I.e evil twin. Toweling off the vile consonants and vowels it chokes up all the time. Spewing forth from their lips after barely crossing the mind. Forgoing looking both ways without mortality to worry about treating them unkind. Say what you will about intelligent design.

Nobody’s listening. With ears trained to show none no mind. While trying to figure out the last scathing remark our belly aching made. Anyone speak deeply concerning growl? Do The Cramps always foretell a smell so foul. If so I’m throwing in the towel. And showering off after evacuating my bowels. Of the strychnine that took its time doing

a number on my......

Into my mouth the bleach goes

The harsh bitter taste attacks my tongue

I want it out

Regret

Penance for every bad word I said

Cleanse my mouth

I gulp it down

My throat is on fire

It's too late to turn back now

Panic

Penance for every person I spit on

Cleanse my throat

I feel it drop into my stomach

It churns the dinner I just ate

Maybe it'll be a painless death

Hope

Penance for every piece of food I stole

Cleanse my stomach

It's coming back up

I'm coughing up blood now

I'm going to die

Peace

Penance for every drop of blood I've spilt

Cleanse my blood

It wasn't enough

I'm still alive

I thought it would be enough to

Cleanse my mind

Some pains are worth ignoring, the foreboding ones especially, the ones that bit long ago and present themselves neatly and conveniently and positioned poetically. The dead pain between your legs and back and gut and groin, that only says hello to remind you of what you do, until doing is no longer fun, it says, hello, it’s time you stopped feeling. It’s worth ignoring because there is nothing that could be done, because those Sundays made you crave something that tasted pure and of nothing.

7th day mornings were always a fight. The sun comes no matter what but the wee eyed dreams of the night need fixing before it’s worth seeing, and nightmares require flirtation timed in days not hours. Church ended any possible salvation from those. St Pats had enough stone and masonry to keep my mind busy enough, though, having a small bladder and frequent water fountain trips made the dry homilies fade away into the brief moment of happiness of saying peace be with you to total strangers. Of course, there were those times when behavior demanded an exile to the hall rectory basement. It was darker down there than bad dreams and equally relegated to the mind’s little cracks that only eye sand can fill. Inevitably, anywhere I was, the masses end with the safe boredom of the brick and painted vaulted arches. The day of rest was now over.

Breakfast went around year round something like this; Fresh eggs (Theresa had to fetch them) – mostly snot sunny side up, frozen orange juice concentrate with a gag pulp of course, powdered milk out of a box, either or both of frozen bacon or Jones’s breakfast sausage pan fried in their own crude death drippings, and white bread toast made from 6 month old sometimes moldy bread that had been bought 5 for 1. Sometimes one or two would go down cruising, sometimes none. The real problem with breakfast was not the food, it was the looming doom of dad the master blaster. Yeah, he was the big cuddly bear strong guy and the short maniacal Napoleon strapped on top, all wrapped into a 140 lb 5’-2” stone of so much mean and heart that the Grinch was like, 7 sizes what? Theresa and I would try to slink away from the table while dad was talking to grandma and grandpa on the phone. Mom would say, “Your father wants you to help him after breakfast”. By help, she meant a kick blocking, hand ducking, tool dodging, crying, hiding, daydreaming, languishing, anguishing, 7yr old, forced captive labor, beating flunky of a kid. It was always learning hard and escaping for fun. There is nothing I can’t tackle today thanks to it. Someone once told me I’m a renaissance man. Yes, bought and paid for in now fiat emotions of that golden kid.

As far as work was concerned, Sundays all mixed in the same. Dad usually worked a 2nd job on Saturday so that was for our rest. Otherwise, the weekends just bled and bled. Work could be anybody’s guess, double 30 yd dump trailers of bulkhead wood to be cut, fork lifts needing repairs dropped off in our driveway, concrete pavement to be demolished by hand, rabbits and ducks to be slaughtered, .5 acre gardens to be tilled, ham radios to be built, all hand cutting for the wood burning stove (if I was a lazy summer, it was my snow job to work it out), tool runner, handy helper, but mostly there to do what I was told. I learned.

Sunday dinners and Sunday nights had good things, always. My mom was never a great cook but she sure knew how to make dinner. Oh, except for the occasional casserole or liver ideas the 70’s induced. We’d watch Quincy, Little house on the Prairie, The Waltons, the Wonderful World of Disney, PBS Telethons of the Marx Brothers and Buster Keaton. They seemed better with popcorn which is still my favorite. We had family time too. Monopoly and Life were good. Poker was fun until my dad fleeced me out of my possessions with the lesson that the house’s business was to cheat. I guess I could go on and on about the bad and the good. Looking back, I’d say good, more, a warm feeling that you feel inside. Not like that other feeling, when as a child you get up late and crave something to taste and you stand in your doorway gnawing the finish, gnawing the fire board, gnawing that white chrysotile center right to the black metallic face, gnawing it from your highest to the floor, bending the back out to gnaw some more, bending it back each night to hide the missing core, gnawing square feet worth of fibers and grit, gnawing it raw and loving every bit, gnawing out the last hours of every Sunday consuming that white asbestos, swallowing it down, letting its crystal fibers embed, embed in the lower intestine. For decades, it nested, prodding the cells until they broke free of their shells and tried to be what they are not. The doctor looks at you and says, “I’ve never seen such an MRI form in a body, it is horrifyingly amazing. It is all connected and shaped like Pterois”.

But this is not what I expected. What am I going to tell her?

“Better Tell her she will meet them all next Sunday”

“and If you are smart, hold onto that string”

“That is it. I am going to get something and kill all of you.” Mark said as a roach crawled across his kitchen counter, which Mark killed with the shoe off his foot. Not even the smell of freedom let him sleep better at night, no matter how much Mark cleaned, the rodents appeared. Mark tied his trash bag shut from the kitchen and thought what he could do to fix his rodent problem. He leaned against the front door, disgusted at where he was in life right now. Mark sighed. “Bromadiolone!” Mark said as he opened the pantry door, he remembered he saw rat poison when he first moved in. There it was, way in the back of the pantry, the label was faded. He was careful, he knew the little white powder was deadly. Mark was certain to hold it away from him before he opened it. He backed up slowly careful not to get any powder on his hands. “This stuff is deadly.” Mark repeated and sprinkled the white powder behind his refrigerator and close to the trash can.

“Mark Goodman!” A voice spoke from the hallway and spooked him. The white powder was somehow knocked over, and spilt all over the kitchen counter.

Mark froze, as the voice knocked on the door.

“Yes.” Mark said as he took a good look through the door’s peep hole. Suddenly, the back of Mark’s head exploded as the bullet passed threw the door. The gunman opened the door and quickly locked it and stepped over Mark’s lifeless body, and put two more bullets into Mark’s deceased corpse. The gunman begun to search the apartment, knocked over a few tables, he was looking for something frantically.

He opened the closet door, pulled miscellaneous items in haste. “It has got to be in here.” The man passed the kitchen and looked at the powdery substance on the counter. He wet his fingers and ran them threw the white powder, mistaken it for cocaine. He went to work again, ransacked the apartment. Within minutes, he begun to sweat heavily, by the time he had searched the whole apartment, he felt like he had the flu.

“Bromadiolone!” He said out loud and held the capsule he found on the floor beside Mark. “Oh God, no!” He cried out as he vomited heavily all over the floor.

The phone rang! The gunman was startled, he hesitated in his weakness. The sixth time it rang, he answered but did not speak.

“I assumed Mark Goodman is dead!” The man said on the other end. “And you did not find what you were looking for.”

The gunman hesitated. “Yes and no.”

“Excellent, the police are about to knock on the door, let them take you… We have a job for you that is far more profitable than killing rats. How about it John Hunt?”

“I swallowed rat poison by mistake. I feel deathly ill.” John said to the mystery man on the phone.

“I will inform them to send an ambulance. Lay down your weapon, once you leave the hospital we will contact you. You have much work to do in Mexico.” The voice said as he hung up the phone.

John dropped the phone, and fell to his knees. The sweat dripped from John’s head as he dry heaved constantly unable to stand.

“Open up it is the police!” They said from the hallway as the door was kicked open. John tossed his pistol a way from himself and placed his hands in the air.