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body div#devskin0 hr { }

He said that every year they always

have a few jumpers.

Sailing down the canyon wall,

Casting off life like some sort of shroud,

Or shedding it early like fresh snake skin.

I sit at the edge of the room with purple

decor.

Karen tries to move for me, but

I stubbornly sit on the fourth stair, my feet on the landing

above her.

"I don't understand how someone could do that,"

my mother said.

Well,

"If you're gonna go out, you might as well go out

with a bang."

Grapes, the translucent body of that lamp,

And a painting on the wall -

The color purple always puts me ill at ease.

In the purple room, my grandparents

model something

intangible and sweet, love

winging its way around the room

to soften more hearts than two.

I winced through these days with my heart

Leaping out of my throat

Ready to fling itself

Ripe over the Grand Canyon.

The ghouls or my souls tell me

"It's true I shall not live forever."

I took a breather to read myself

A book that told me

People like me

Flirt with death

More than most people.

We're more likely to take the leap.

I am bipolar again

And I can't stay in the purple room.

Purple is the color of mystery

And I can't. stop. thinking.

about dying.

Two things make life worthwhile,

they said.

The freedom to live life as you will,

and a Love to share it with.

"This is a little bit scary,"

my mother said. We drove right along

the canyon wall.

"I don't like thinking there's just

nothing

right next to you."

I remember how agonizingly

simple

losing her was. And how I wish

I could love someone but

know I'd be dragging them into this

question

with me. I

forced myself to stare at the

drop,

thinking,

"I'll stare in the face of death and show no

fear."

I managed to stare.

I am sitting trying to read away my doubts

And thinking about death

And love

And age

And how very far I am away from home.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

He said that every year they always

have a few jumpers.

Sailing down the canyon wall,

Casting off life like some sort of shroud,

Or shedding it early like fresh snake skin.

I sit at the edge of the room with purple

decor.

Karen tries to move for me, but

I stubbornly sit on the fourth stair, my feet on the landing

above her.

"I don't understand how someone could do that,"

my mother said.

Well,

"If you're gonna go out, you might as well go out

with a bang."

Grapes, the translucent body of that lamp,

And a painting on the wall -

The color purple always puts me ill at ease.

In the purple room, my grandparents

model something

intangible and sweet, love

winging its way around the room

to soften more hearts than two.

I winced through these days with my heart

Leaping out of my throat

Ready to fling itself

Ripe over the Grand Canyon.

The ghouls or my souls tell me

"It's true I shall not live forever."

I took a breather to read myself

A book that told me

People like me

Flirt with death

More than most people.

We're more likely to take the leap.

I am bipolar again

And I can't stay in the purple room.

Purple is the color of mystery

And I can't. stop. thinking.

about dying.

Two things make life worthwhile,

they said.

The freedom to live life as you will,

and a Love to share it with.

"This is a little bit scary,"

my mother said. We drove right along

the canyon wall.

"I don't like thinking there's just

nothing

right next to you."

I remember how agonizingly

simple

losing her was. And how I wish

I could love someone but

know I'd be dragging them into this

question

with me. I

forced myself to stare at the

drop,

thinking,

"I'll stare in the face of death and show no

fear."

I managed to stare.

I am sitting trying to read away my doubts

And thinking about death

And love

And age

And how very far I am away from home.