To My Brother in the Abyss,
Brother, I cannot write to you right now as if my eyes are not bloodshot red from a night of trying to drink away my senses, as if my mind is still not dizzy in a drunken hangover, as if my body is still not weak from weeks of hunger and my daily attempts to will pass the desire to destroy myself. Brother, I cannot write to you as if I am not listening to your words with suicidal fascination. For when you sing “I’m done – strike three. I got a dark cloud right over me, and if this ceiling is coming down, then it soon would be the end for me.” I sing with you. I sing with you the black boy’s song.
Brother, I cannot write to you in an attempt to save your life. For I too am in…
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