I think of all of the different ways I could kill myself. I learn how to tie a noose. I load bullets. I sharpen a razor. If I die, would anyone really care? How many lives would it drastically change?

Lying nostril-deep in a bathtub filled with boiling hot water, my hair billows towards the fluorescent light like seaweed waving at the sun. I open my eyes and look at the rippled world painted marble white over brown rust to hide the filth in a poor attempt. Bubbles gather on the rim of my nose and threaten to leave. But I know this isn’t the end. This isn’t how I’m supposed to die. So I sit up.

I look down at all of the fake toupee’s men wear to hide their baldness as if ashamed and unwilling to admit defeat to their receding hairline disease. A breeze caresses my hair against me, as if daring me to jump. A crowd gathers. Humans are fascinated with the image of death. It is a disgusting habit. I step out and feel the air of nothing beneath the soles of my feet. A giant breath is inhaled by the crowd in sick anticipation. I step back. When I see them on the same level, I can almost smell their disappointment through their fake joy.

Now, I lie in my deathbed. I am not ready to leave just yet but when I was about to end myself, I wanted it. Death and willingness cannot coexist in the same bed.