When I was twenty I dreamt of a gas range.
It worked for her, I told myself.
It was the only way to go.
the most poetic end
the most triumphant
Why do all the great suicides take place in London?
I thought about how many extra rocks it would take to drown myself in the Thames.
Obsessively checked bodies of water where I could be carried away but none were in London
None of those lakes and streams took the last breath of Virginia
My alternate patron saint of suicide
So what was the point?
When I was 20 I crushed up a hundred pills of tylenol extra strength Mixed it with pink lemonade
The college-girl mentality
A beautiful, tragic death
People would weep at the open casket
Gauzy dress and tiny wrists
Funny, that college-girl mentality
I’d been thinking about off myself since I was twelve
I imagined I could know Sylvia
if I could die young too
leave behind my unfinished works
so people could curate the stories for me
let someone else do the messy work
twisting my heartaches into a story
one worth saying out loud
but pink lemonade might look right for the perfect literary icon suicide
the aesthetic of femininity
the glass shattered on the floor when I lost consciousness
but acidic beverages don’t hide the taste of Tylenol
and when you drop the glass
your Ikea mattress will forever be stained pink
how’s that for the college-girl mentality?
Am I now the icon I’ve always dreamt of becoming?
They tell you lies
Lies with the fuzzy outline of
Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf
The pain of women who lived years before you were born
who should have been over eighty when I was twenty and planning my suicide
But I am here
yet to write my magnus opus
the things they could have written
the stories you can tell
not to give them up to gas ovens
and rocks in your pockets
You can drink pink lemonade and whisky,
and black coffee when you feel like it.