Because it’s embarrassing how many poems you’ve written about killing yourself. Because you discovered the suicide note your father wrote to your mother. Because the note said, I’m sorry, dearest, our sons didn’t turn out as we hoped. Because your oldest friend just died after you’d been angry with her the whole year for taking only half of every pill prescribed her. Because she wouldn’t let you in her house, where newspapers were piled to the ceiling. Because she was the only person you trusted with your suicide notes disguised as poems; only she didn’t find you morally irresponsible for wanting to kill yourself. Because your father didn’t die from that bottle of pills but drifted off to sleep after you spent a year changing his diapers, sprinkling talcum powder on his buttocks, and sending him into his dreams smelling like a baby. And you’re still hanging on to self-pity because it’s something you’ve always been good at: far easier than grieving. You’d rather do anything than grieve.