You deserve the chance to not die if you don’t want to. But there’s no cure for it. When will they find cures for it? And don’t say what’s said when questions get asked about life being eternal. Life isn’t. It’s almost.
I’ve nothing profound to add. I fucked up my time and you did. And some of the moments I thought maybe, only to realise no.
But if you die, don’t do it this way. Not like this. Don’t choose this. If a hallucination says anything it tells you you’re not sane to decide if to die.
Don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t die don’t
One day I’ll understand why I did it, reverted to the life I had, pretended I’d wanted it, that there weren’t pieces of me previously – my shirt buttons, shoes, elastic and stitching – that were all after you, ready to pinch you, shrink you in hot washes, seal you in packets and watch your breath collect as condensation in droplets at the bottom of bags. You made me forget the world ended as it ended around us and I never called your authority or questioned you having it and we didn’t need escape plans: I practiced balance with my yoga daily and I stretched you out on sleeping bags as my child slept and you said you’d play a part, you’d be a person I might need and you’d touch me when I asked and you’d have a flashlight handy and you’d walk me in the middle of the night when I needed a piss and you’d hold my unwashed hand on the way back, ready to own every inch as god watched. You’re dead now.