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ProseChallenge #67: Write a poem about grief.
The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for 24 consecutive hours. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online. Once the challenge ends, the winner will be chosen and a notification will be sent. The coins will transfer to the Prose Wallet within 24 hours.

What Else to Say

I am 21 years old and it feels like everyone I know wants

          to hurt themselves.

And there are some days my name is at the top of that list.

They ask me why – why should I keep living?

          And I really don’t have an answer for them.

I wish I did. I don’t know what else to say.

I am 21 years old and everyone I know wants to kill themselves,

          but they all claim no one understands

while standing together on the same ledge, practically holding hands.

The image of their brains on the pavement is like a siren song.

          So entranced,

they don’t notice the line forming behind them.

I am 21 years old and everyone I know

          thinks I don’t know what they’re doing

when they walk down the highway in the dark, wearing black.

We just had another funeral on Thursday.

          No note.

I don’t even know where he got the gun.

I think he knew any note he could have written would have been

          our manifesto – the catalyst

everyone I know has been waiting for.

I am just 21 years old and I want to kill myself too. But I can’t stand

          the idea of my mother

wondering where I got the gun. Why I didn’t leave a note.

Maybe this was his message to us, the curse

          of knowing every painful emotion

our loved ones will go through when we leave them.

And if God really doesn’t exist, I’m going to feel

          pretty goddamn stupid

when I kill myself. So that’s what I tell them:

When they ask me why they should stay alive

          in this shit-eating world

where they can’t even afford groceries, let alone compassion.

I am just 21 years old, I tell them. I’m no psychic.

          But I know there is nothing waiting for you

on the other end of suicide. That much, I can tell you.

I know your mother is going to bawl her eyes out

          and I’m going to have to watch.

And for that, I will never forgive you.

I know you won’t be around to enjoy

          the peace and quiet

you yearned for. You will simply be gone.

I know my life will never be the same without you.

          That’s about the most I can give you.

Please, please take care of yourself. I don’t know what else to say.

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