Her Blacks Crackle and Drag….

I take this title from one of Sylvia Plath’s final poems before her own suicide.  The Phrase Crackle and Drag to me implies an afterimage, like when you watch the television screen and shut your eyes.  You see phantasmagoria looming in your vision.  This is what I hope to accomplish by my death.  I want my loved ones to know that there is no malice nor ill-will in this action;  I want them to know that I love them with a love that cannot be quantified; an immeasurable love deeper and wider than even I can believe.  It Becomes more apparent as the moment approaches.  I plan to swallow my bottle of sleeping pills, as well as ninety days worth of zoloft.  I will wash it down with a fifth of vodka, and if I find myself awake at any point, I will cut my wrists with the razor blade I have kept on my nightstand for many months now.  I hope that my death will  not be looked upon as regrettable; but rather as the sole solution for a tormented person.  I hope those that I love and who love me will understand that If I could have gone on, I would have.  And I hope the afterimage I leave on their minds is one of deep love, fond memories, and the sweet ache of nostalgia.  Peace out, motherfuckers.