25

It was my intention to die

On birthday (deathday) twenty-five

When the air was shrouded in winter’s grey

February skies already clad for mourning

In a hotel haphazard home between non-homes

In a foreign land. Like a poet.

It would have been poignant and stoic.

I washed my hair and left my note

But ultimately

I added “Dying” to the long list of my failures.

Life is purgatory

And I hate that it’s too much

And that I am not enough.

In spite of myself

I exist (on borrowed time?)

Tell myself I can bow low, exit stage right

Whenever I can really take no more

But something, something always makes me pause

At the threshold of that final welcome door.