The Trouble Clef - Poet's Suicide [by Lera Auerbach]

So many poets have killed themselves – they could form a city or a small country of their own. Somewhere in the gray islands of Nowhere, after getting drunk on the waters of the Styx, they can’t quite remember the reasons for self-slaughter. Surely there must have been something unthinkably unbearable, but what comes to mind is the messy kitchen, the stack of unopened bills, smells of decay, the yellowing pages of an old folded newspaper with a poem printed from the time when they still loved themselves – and it was mutual.

Why was it so unbearable to wake up every day to the same face in the mirror – was it really such a torture?

No, there is nothing romantic in suicide, it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, like flossing out adjectives. Life is an act of courage, death – of cowardliness, a bastardized cry for attention – you, hear me, pity me, you, you all who didn’t see this coming, vomit your guilt on your freshly-ironed shirts. My death is your punishment.

Suicide is contagious. Follow the poet – life is simply too much. God gave you free will – so use it, dammit. The easiest answer is the shortest – no. Can’t deal with it – so kill yourself. Can’t bear it up close – just exit, slamming the door, giving the bird to Divine Providence.

Death is, by far, the best PR act. Don’t cringe as if you have never thought of it. Choreographed stage-exit. Turn on all the spot-lights! Bravi, bravissimo! Only no curtain calls nor applause in this show.

Where was your guardian angel when you shot yourself, drunk on boredom and despair? What was your last thought? Tired indifference? Belated remorse? Childish hope that you wouldn’t quite die, and when you woke up – all would be changed, so you would be spared the burden?

I have stared too long into the light; black circles float in the bullet-proof air. Is it true that depression is one of the mortal sins? Is it a physical sickness? A chemical cocktail of the body? Is suicide murder? Would the church condemn me? Is it contagious? Could it spread to my family?

Writing poems is a dangerous profession. Playing with the gods has its side-effects.

Two words remain in the ruins of the vocabulary, in the last note, scribbled hurriedly, while there is still time, on the closest piece of paper, some unpaid bill perhaps, written across the page in shaky dancing letters, two words, smashed between the inked lines, not answering ‘Why?’, not answering to ‘Why now’, two words, shaky thought, footsteps to Nowhere: forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive...