I have nothing against suicide. I just hope it's for the right reasons.
There's been no word from you since my arrival here in Santa Fe, and I'm wondering how you are. As you know, I came to the Southwest to try to talk you out of going through with your plans--per your request--and I'd hoped to have seen you by now.
I understand, though. Your life is in an upheaval, and I'm sure you don't know which way is up or down, and believe me, sister, I know what you're going through. I wouldn't be here right now had it not been for the saving grace of something unknown.
Anywho, I won't get into that right now!
I don't know how you can stand this dry, hot air. I can barely breathe, and every time I do, I inhale dust. My tongue is all white and cracked, like dried curdled milk. Give me a stale Oreo, and I'd have a snack.
And the architecture. What's with the mud huts? I don't get it. Personally, I'll take the dusty, crime filled streets of Detroit; at least there's some action there. Maybe that's part of the problem. You need a change of venue. A new environment. A place where your blood can start flowing again, and you can take in some oxygen.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not suggesting you move back to Michigan. I'm just saying maybe your senses need a different scene.
Guess I'm not giving Santa Fe a fair chance; I've only been in this town a few days. Maybe the right vibe just has to set in. After all, some locals say this place is magical, that there's a huge crystal right below the foundation of the city. from way back when, guess it began right after all the volcanoes blew up. Believe what you must!
I think with the two of us working on this problem, we can brainstorm and figure out what you should do with your life. Then you can decide if you want to end it.
Believe me Susan, as I said before, since I opened my business, Suicide Letters by Jack Monroe, I've lost no clients; few there were. Plus, you have to remember it was you who contacted me; so deep down, in some hidden way, you must want my help.
I'm roasting as the hot Southwest sun rises over my shoulder, streaming into the side of my eye. The brightness blinds me for a moment. I see silver sparkles dancing against a black setting, kind of like a bad reel-to-reel, flickering like a strobe light. I glimpse pictures of myself as a child, young and fearful. Wondering about the moment death gives birth to finality. Did I know then what I don't know now?
Mary Maurice wrote her first poem when she was in the ninth grade, and hasn't stopped writing since. Catching the fire at an early age, she continues to dedicate her time to the craft.