Because I don’t want to scare you, I’m not actually contemplating suicide at the moment. That being said, what follows are true feelings.
Of suicide, two things I’ve been told.
That’s of cowards, because it’s living what puts bravery to test,
and that’s selfish because of whom we’re leaving behind.
And each time I can’t help but to smile bitterly. Why do you think that in the face of death I’d be so afraid of being selfish or cowardly? Of course I’m selfish, my life is one of the very few things I own! If I can’t be selfish with my, well, self, there’s not much left for me, is it? And why would I be a coward, by whose standards, and why is it so important? You’re free to tell my corpse that being at room temperature is a serious lack of character, and of empathy, and of warmth, but, that’s a given. I find no offence in your words. Let me be selfish, and let me be a coward!
And you know what? I am selfish, and I’m a coward already, when I tell someone else not to kill themselves. Because I’m afraid of dying, but I’m terrified of living and if you were to decide that the worse option is the latter, well, I couldn’t help but consider that maybe, perhaps, it could be that your opinion as a valid point of view. And I don’t know where that train of thought could stop if someone were to disengage the brakes again.
And even so, I’m afraid of losing you, so I’m doubly cowardly and doubly selfish, and that’s fine with me.
But I still appreciate your words and your worry. And that’s what matters to me. I may sound incredibly cold-hearted, and sometimes I may be, but, even when I think I can see the reflection and the shadows of your own fears in the silence between your words,
I like knowing you’re afraid to lose me,
and that you think what I do matters,
and that you feel my life has value,
so I’m again a coward,
and again selfish,
but I’m alive.