Miodrag is an award winning Canadian author writing in English, born and raised in Serbia, and former university lecturer in several countries. He won a Lambda Literature Award in Gay Male Erotica and a dozen other writing awards in 8 countries. His books are in 400+ libraries worldwide and his over 250 individual pieces have been published in hundreds of journals and magazines in 13 languages and 21 countries.
Transcript
[TW – Suicide]
I held them on my outstretched palm last night. My beautiful ones, small ones. My mighty pills. Pills white and orange and pills blue. It’d be so easy—I smelled them. A distant memory arose: Lily the pharmacist, asleep to Eternity in the valley of Neckar. Cleopatra’s droplets awoke within my veins and venomous spider’s eggs glittered shinier against my rosy skin. So, that too was a lie—thought I, eyeing the elongated, if twisted, life-line. I am but three decades old, after all. Silicium graphite twinkled on the side-clock. Never again the odious buzzing to drill with a powerful rationalism into the bubbling safety of my drowsiness. For that one reason it would be worth. Or rather—just. A good thing to do. For I do not expect to reach, achieve anything through suicide. Just to be detached fully, relieved of all responsibilities. My will be done, one time at last; I’ve had enough of yours. But then the dog barked again and I knew it’d been too late all along. It should have come at 13, at 17. At 20 at the latest. Like Heliogabalus, who, covered in saffron and gold dust, descends into a lapis-lazuli tiled pool. Like a miraculously youthful ephemeral In-the-King’s-Stead to be sacrificed after a week’s rule. Like madness, which was flowing out of my body through vicious wounds while humans lapped at its puddles somewhere beneath. Like a beauty bygone. Forlorn. Like yesterday.
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