You think that death only comes if you can convince yourself to drive to Ace Hardware to buy a rope that won’t snap at the weight of your fat ass, if you can measure and tie a convincing noose. If you could manage to lasso it around a suitable beam and find a sturdy stool to kick off.
You think that death only comes if you can find a sharp enough blade or your least favourite kitchen knife, if you can find a bathtub to sit in, if you remember to cut down the road and not across the street.
You think that death only comes if you can swallow the entire bottle of pills before you get too full from all that water drinking and if you can calculate the right amount of time that need to elapse for it to be too late to get your stomach pumped.
You think that death only comes if you find a high enough point to jump off, or if you car hits that concrete wall hard enough, if there is enough water to get into your lungs.
You think that death only comes if you jump in front of that speeding train at just the right time, if you can decide if dying by the Ampang or Kelana Jaya line makes your death more matyr-like.
You think that death only comes if you inhale sufficient amounts of the right gas, if you can attach the hose contraption from your exhaust to your car window right. If you make sure that the coals you burn does actually kill you rather than misleading your neighbours that you’re having a barbecue.
You think that death can only happen at the cessation heartbeats, when you stop drawing breath.
Death comes in the mornings.
Death comes in the nights.
and all the hours in between.
Death comes in losing the little privileges of texting you random things throughout the day, or the hushed conversations late at night, of making you sandwiches with little notes on them,
of saying I love you and have you say it back.
Death comes in the memories that made up us, in the places that we used to go and that song on the radio. Death comes in remembering the complex topography of your body, or something stupid like how much soy sauce you like on your cili padi.
Death comes in staring at your number, willing you to call or text; of staring out my window wishing that you would pull up to my driveway once more, in fervent prayers for you to please, please change your mind.
Death comes in the relentless ticking of the clock, the passing of minutes, the feeling of being torn between wanting time to heal all wounds but not wanting the passage of time to erode your memory of us.
Death comes in trying to figure out what went wrong, whose fault it was, why can’t it be fixed. Death comes in trying to figure out the reason why you left and knowing that nothing changes even if I do succeed.
Death comes in killing that little flame of hope, in beating down every optimistic thought of you coming back
in making it look like I have moved on when all I do is take one step forward and three steps back.
Death comes in drinking to numb what’s already numb, in rereading the sentences and replaying that conversation that shattered my heart just so I can feel it break again.
Death comes in living