There were exactly four things

Jacob planned on doing before he killed himself.

See the sunrise one last time, say a prayer to the God he loved,

write his final note, and give that teapot

to the child next door playing pretend. That’s all he would do.

All his other poems and stories were sent

 

to the publisher, the letters sent

to his family, never to be read. They always had other things,

more important things, to do.

He was little more than a child himself,

but his pretend land could not be not be saved by a teapot;

unlike the child next door who would be grateful and love

 

it, just as she loved dolls and superheroes; loved

playing pretend and loved life. He tossed away the special tea bags that were sent

however long ago when he got the teapot,

when he was once excited for all things

a young adult could buy for his home and himself.

But besides brewing tea, what does one do

 

with a teapot, what does one do

with one’s life when there is no happiness or love

or anything worth living for. He hated himself,

hated life, hated this hell; unlike the little girl that would be sent

the teapot next door. Life happens, things

change, even that one little teapot

 

gets rusty and discolored; even that lonely teapot

gets worn down. And when one runs out of things to do

to keep yourself alive, then the only things

left to think about are things that can kill you. If God could love

him, even after he did this, he might see Heaven–or be sent

to Hell for killing himself.

 

There is nothing more dangerous he could do than hate himself,

nothing would please him more than taking that teapot

and smashing it, burning everything; but the firemen would be sent

over and he’d be taken away because that’s what they do

with crazy people or people who couldn’t love

themselves. People seem to think diseases like this are fixable things.

 

He drops off the teapot, the last and only act of love

that he himself will ever do;

and with his last word to God sent, he did the inevitable thing.

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