Brett Rogers

Burn Me And Throw A Party - Poem by Brett Rogers

It has been a long while since I last cried,
Like really wept …
Maybe eight years (and I am edging ever closer to 30) …
[My Grandma (the nice one, my hero) had just died.
I bit my lip with young-man pride as her funeral rolled on and on …
And when it came time to navigate through the cornfield-framed roads,
From visitation to after-gathering,
I led my car abruptly to the shoulder and lost all control …
(She lies, a little red flower, at the base of a rainy-day willow,
Forever on my left arm) ].
I can feel it these days inside
Pressing against my outer shell,
A popcorn kernel in minute two of the microwave circle dance.
I have even recently dreamt of uncontrolled tears
(I sobbed myself awake, those many late nights ago,
As she slipped away, unknown yet to me, so many miles apart) …
And in spite, in my waking life,
I have built such a perfect dam.
So, instead,
I do the so predictable
And toast a 6-pack of the cheap-shit in under two hours,
Hoping to shed my shield
And just,
Let this all go:
The endless monotony of these days,
These nightmare days,
This lonesome life …

* * *

I am dying.
That’s it.
Straight up, and to the point.

It is slow,
I grant you.
But non-linear.
It is a long, long, long time in creation,
And this recent acceleration is luminous …

I have had this voice inside encouraging me to kill myself for the last 18 of my 29 years.
I am exhausted from
Ignoring it,
Disguising it,
Reasoning with it,
Hiding from it,
Getting it drunk or high or fucked,
Stuffing it with French fries and chocolate.
I’m exhausted from this “how are you? ” “I’m fine” waltz …
All the same demons remain,

In 5th grade I was gonna stick a BB gun up my nose and pull the trigger
In hopes of success.
It drew quite a bit of curious attention.
I didn’t go through with it, thankfully …
I don’t think it would have worked,
And I am not one for attempts …

… Soon though,
I will go to the grown-up gun store,
And buy something cheap and hand-held (but distinctly effective) .
I imagine it like the moment when the Doc says,
“There is just nothing more that we can do.” …
(“No thank you, I don’t need any help.
I think maybe you are placing too much value on living.”)
And I will smile smiles of relief
(For a little while) ,
And go to my favorite bars,
And travel to the few places I was assured I had to see,
And tell the few I love that I love them,
Though most no longer love me
(And all my ex-lovers will gather in a corner and say, “I’m amazed he made it this long”) …
I will find a grassy patch somewhere quiet
Where I won’t make too much of a mess …
And the simple note in my pocket will say, “Give my stuff to charity.” …
And then it will be …
(I will smile, easily,
Before the gun and I let go.)

* * *

I wish not to suffer.
I do not want to be kept alive by machinations.
Take my organs, please!
Though I think you’ll find
They are just so
Very disappointing.

Topic(s) of this poem: death, suicide

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Poem Submitted: Friday, March 13, 2015

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