the price of freedom

I walked past a bus shelter yesterday. One pane of glass had been broken, leaving behind sharp jagged edges. Shattered glass was sprinkled on the pavement like hundreds and thousands. The unharmed glass next to the shattered pane had a piece of yellow A4 paper that announced "Quick Divorces $300".

$300 sounds like a small price to pay for freedom. A small price to pay to close off a chapter of your life. Complete it with a full stop. Rather than ease out of it with commas and semicolons.

Today, the broken pane had been cleaned up, the sharp edges cleared, and a yellow caution tape was fluttering in their place. The notice for quick divorces was gone too. Broken glass and broken promises, removed by municipal employees.

photographs of dead friends

“Who’s this?”

That’s Simon. Took his mother’s sedatives
And then
Slit his wrists.
His mother was on the wrong side of a locked door
And as he bled to death
She called the police who came
Too late to save him because
They lived in the wrong part of town.

“What about him?”

Him? Greg hung himself
In the basement apartment that he lived in.
One week later
Someone set fire to the house
While his neighbours slept upstairs.
They lost everything but
Kept their lives.

“He looks happy.”

They all look happy in these pictures.
But Rodrigo didn’t kill himself.
He was an international rudeboy.
Had kids on two continents to prove it.
Someone stabbed him for revenge.
He also bled to death before the cops got there.

"What's her story?"

Brooklyn was a performer
But she didn't want the fame
Or anything that came with it.
Her friends found her when
She didn't answer her phone.
She used a rope.

In memory.