New York City Suicide

It’s a crushing realization that nobody on the subway platform cares if I am about to die, that no one will try to talk me out of it, that they all have jobs to be at and homes to return to. Why does nobody care about me?

I know why nobody cares; I have chosen a place where nobody cares, a place of headaches, morning commutes, and hurried, impersonal coffee purchases. I don’t want to be in this place anymore. I don’t want to die; I just can’t live like this. I feel the plastic bag of syringes shift in my backpack as if on cue.

They’ll say I was high when I fell in front of the train. They’ll say only 10% of junkies make it out alive. They’ll say “it’s an epidemic!” They’ll say we need better programs in the schools. They’ll say my parents came to identify my body and couldn’t even recognize their own daughter. They’ll say a lot of things. They won’t say that I was in pain right before I died. They won’t say that I was trying to get better.