Methods of Suicide (or The Ramblings of a Madwoman)

By Hypatia Artemisia

I. OVERDOSE

easy, but lazy and sloppy.

I fear the shame of waking up.

my life is a ruin but my death — my death must be Perfect.

The Perfect Suicide.

I think of Marilyn — Perfect, lovely, sexy.

immortalized by a young death, transfixed by the male gaze.

Marilyn — your golden veneer is frozen in time

the films, the photoshoots, the Warhols

you became theirs and not yours.

There you stand, a pristine coquette

There you lie, nude on the bed

pills spilling from your pale hand

they never really saw you, they only leered at you

oozing sex even in the rotting clutches of death.

“it’s better to burn out than to fade away” — said Cobain

(another pill-head blondie)

27 club? I can do you one better: 17 squad

Ha, I wonder if I’ll ever come of age. I don’t think I wan’t to.

I gather painkillers, antidepressants, cough medicine.

this seems quite stupid. stupid and dull and sloppy.

this won’t do; it’s not Perfect enough.

II. GUNSHOT

BANG — and it’s over.

I think of Van Gogh — his starry, starry night.

blues and greens and oranges

swirling and whirling; dotted and smudged

BANG — red and red and red

splattered and trickling down, down, down.

“this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you” — Don sang of Vincent

Am I too beautiful? No, it is a delusion. I’m too ugly.

ugly and disgusting and worthless and wretched.

I must exterminate myself, rid the world of my scourge.

But it is impossible. I wish I lived in America.

Then I could buy a gun and do the deed.

BANG — clean and quick. Perfect.

Or maybe some schizoid white kid could do it for me.

Or some fucking racist. Even more Perfect! I could be a martyr then.

Would I be beautiful if I was a martyr?

III. BLEEDING OUT

I don’t like this one. Blood makes me cringe.

I’ve never cut, I fear the pain of a deep

slice through paper thin skin and

thick arteries.

the thought of crimson rivulets fading into

the murky periwinkle bathwater

makes me shudder.

I’m too weak for this. Weak. Cowardly.

weak and cowardly and worthless and wretched.

I’m not Perfect enough.

not enough. never enough.

IV. JUMPING

I wonder what it feels like to fly

is it poetic? to fly once before falling

down, down, down, forever

and never getting back up again

but in my heart of hearts, I can’t

bear the image of my mother and father

and sister and lover and friends

peering over the gathering crowd

leering at the mangled corpse surrounded

by yellow tape

I can’t bear the image of it:

my body, mangled and mutilated

there I lie, a mess of organs

I become theirs and not mine —

nothing more than a spectacle

a blood-red warning sign.

V. DROWNING

the water’s embrace is soft and cold

I could go down to the bay at dawn

when the tide is still high, the water pallid

I think of Virginia — my dearest, my dearest.

such sprawling intellect contained within such slight frame

a frantic mind finally pacified

down, down, down under the River Ouse’s cool currents

but water is deceptive — appearing gentle but in fact

she is a sadistic tormenter

filling the lungs: sloshing and slashing and sloshing and slashing

I stare out at the shimmering horizon over the sea one morning,

sitting on a lounge chair outside the White Crane cafe.

“Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?”

“Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?”

VI. HANGING

this is a painful one, there is no doubt about it.

but it is surefire (as surefire as can be without a gun I mean)

I pore over articles on knots, materials, techniques

there is a tree under a hill near my house

the branches are gnarled like an old woman’s arthritic fingers

I climb the tree one evening, test out the Perfect noose I crafted

thickness? check.

length? check.

rope strenghth? check.

I bite my cheek until blood seeps out. I can do this.

The Perfect Suicide.

but I can’t do it.

I’m too weak and worthless and wretched.

Death taunts me from under my trembling legs —

a seductive bad boy I can’t bring myself to look in the eye.

Here I stand, a cursed creature.

Here I will lie, a mixture of dust and water.

I gaze into that Nietzchean abyss. I gaze and he

gazes back. The darkness bores through my eye

sockets, blinding me.

No, I am far too weak — Imperfect.

human, all too human.

I break my gaze away from the void and look back

over the pale hills, the orange-tinted sunset skies

the birds singing in their stupid glee

to my ravaged eyes, long fixed on the abyss, all else

is so faded — oh! so, so faded

no, in this faded world, there is nothing to fear at all

I unhook the noose, clamber down.

Has the decision been made? Death shakes his

head knowingly from the corner

Knowing nothing, and deciding nothing,

I trudge up the hill, and stumble listlessly

into tomorrow.