I've known for a while that I wouldn't die of old age.

Since before I was in my playground years my eyes have lingered on sharp tools and long silences

This all dawned on me when I overheard my not- friends talking about what they wanted to do in ten years, and knowing I wouldn't have to worry about what I would be doing

This isn't a suicide note but it wants to be ,I would love to weave words in beautiful Bouquet That make it ok for me to slice sweet nothing into my nebula , but no words will make that ok.

These words fall from me like torn pages because they can't be explained, that all I want is to close my eyes and see the stars but that can't happen because always every day we wake to the morning rush of an alarm telling you you're late and we wonder is it a dream today or is it real.

I was told to wait till I was thirty-three by a woman with no eyes and clothes of a rag picker but the way her words held me told me she heard the same song the same call to

sleep so tempting and so I wait .